


Metanoia

by YourSlytherinQueen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy - Freeform, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Original Character(s), Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Slow Burn, post war harry potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 56,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27372229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourSlytherinQueen/pseuds/YourSlytherinQueen
Summary: Two years. Two years of healing, of learning how to live without those lost, of learning how to live at all. Two years of peace; of still silence and sunrises that shine brighter than ever before. Two years and everything feels right. The darkness has receded, the evil vanquished. Everything is right. But underneath the newly worn smiles and brilliant sunsets and laughter, darkness stirs. Not content to live in the shadows, to be moved past and forgotten it brews its ill will. And the only man who might be able to stop it is the last person on earth she'd like to meet again.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	1. Just Draco

Limbs and hair and skimpy silk jump to the beat throbbing through the gritty club. Bodies work against bodies, the smell of liquor and tobacco hanging heavy in the air. Eyes follow sleek silver, drinking in exposed tanned skin and playful red lips. She drinks the attention in, wrapping it around herself like a blanket to keep out the cold, flirting with the crude comments and lusty stares.

The music, so loud you can barely hear yourself think, chases away their dying cries. Faces without names replace those of fallen friends. A stranger's touch keeps the dreams at bay. In here, surrounded by depravity and drunkenness one cannot forget there was a time that the world was cruel and cold. With enough to drink, with someone to keep the other side of the bed warm, she can almost put the past in its place. She can almost let herself believe that things are better now.

A flash of green against constant grey sends her night tumbling towards an abrupt pause. He moves through the crowd, people breaking like water on rock as he strides through the small space, henchmen flanking him. His grip on her arm is like thorns, biting into the flesh, ripping open old wounds. It's bad enough she has to see him at the office. Now here. Invading the one place she feels like just another person, a face in an endless crowd of no ones.

"We need to talk."

Jerking her arm away, she stares defiantly back at his ego, daring it to come out and play, to force her, "I'll be at work on Monday."

"This can't wait."

For a second all he can see is the whites of her eyes, her annoyance filling the air with electricity. And then they're outside, the voices, so overpowering in the club, becoming muffled background noise. The moonlight reflects off the glitter dusted over her cheekbones, jewelry casting rainbows across the dingy alley.

"What do you want, Potter?"

Harry fidgets with the sleeve of his robes, eyes jumping from the rubbish bins to the fire escape, finally settling on her deep blue ones. They were never really friends. She was part of his little group, Dumbledore's Army, hidden behind borrowed robes and a shaky cover story. The Auror office was the first place they really had a conversation though. She walked in and blew through their training courses. There is mutual respect, understanding that this job doesn't get done without cooperation, but she's never liked his inflated ego and condescending tone. Then again, she's never really liked anyone, ever. Trust wasn't a skill her parents thought all that highly of.

"We need you to reach out to Mr. Malfoy. There's a matter we're looking into that concerns him."

"Lucius?"

Another uncomfortable tour of the alley with his eyes, "His son, Draco."

Laughter pierces the silence, her head thrown back, hair flying out like a fiery mane, "That's rich. Why do I have to do it? Weren't you two mildly obsessed with each other at school? Why don't you do it?"

"We thought it might be better if someone from his own house – "

Not needing to hear more, she holds a hand up, silencing Potter, "I get it."

"You two were friends, right?"

"Just because two people are in the same house doesn't mean they're friends. He was a pompous daddy's boy. I hate him."

Snickers rise from behind Harry, his backup nudging each other. He turns, giving them a warning look before turning back, shrugging out of his robes, "Er – you look cold."

"Oi! Weasley!" One of the henchman's heads snaps towards her, the red rising to his cheeks visible even in the dismal lighting. "Didn't mummy teach you that staring is rude?"

The Auror clears his throat, stepping up next to Harry. He looms over the younger boy, his red hair sticking out at haphazard angles under his cloak hood. His eyes stay trained on the rubbish littered bricks, lips tugged into a sheepish smile, "Sorry, Keilee."

"I'm only toying, George." Handing Harry his robes back, she gives the Auror a playful nudge, rolling her eyes; "I know you had too many siblings for your mum to teach them all manners."

"Sod off," George laughs back, wrapping his arm around her neck, squeezing gently.

Keilee took to the Weasley's like a fish to water. Ginny was in her year, strong and brilliant and incredibly sassy, the two became nearly inseparable after Keilee proved not all Slytherins were blood obsessed pricks. Ron, stubborn and loyal to a tee and so incredibly selfless. He adopted the oddball Slytherin after constant pestering from his little sister. And the twins; met over a summer spent at the Burrow. She marveled at their minds, capable of pulling witty pranks out of nothing. Losing Fred felt like a bullet to the chest. Despite missing his other half, George was there for her through the grieving process, the two helping each other be strong. George is the closest thing she's ever had to a real brother.

"Get a room," grumbles the third companion, lowering his hood to reveal another mop of brilliant red.

Keilee lets out a shriek of laughter, "They got you too, Ronald?"

"Ron and yeah finished training two days ago. I figured if George could do it – " Ron shoots his older brother a smug look, straightening his robes.

"I see," she remarks with a cock of her eyebrow, spinning away from George to address Harry who looks like he's just found himself at the wrong family reunion. "So how do you suppose I find a man who doesn't want to be found?"

Harry gives a stiff shrug, "I'm sure you'll figure something out. That's what you do, isn't it? Figure things out."

"My methods may be unconventional, but they always work, don't they? I get results."

The dark-haired man swallows hard under her scrutinizing glare. Since the war, Harry's methods have softened. He's a talk first, action second kind of guy now. Keilee never really believed in asking questions. People rarely change their colors. Once a villain always a villain. Words mean nothing if the actions don't follow and the actions so rarely follow.

"We need him unharmed, Kei. No Confunding, no erasing his memories, no hexing."

"Fine, spoilsport," she crosses her arms over her chest, giving the Auror another eye roll. He really knows how to suck out all the fun the job offers. "You still haven't answered my question though. How am I meant to find a man who hasn't been seen in nearly two years?"

From behind Harry, Ron clears his throat, pulling a piece of parchment from his robe pocket, "We've got good information placing him in Suffolk, near Aldeburgh. There's a small magical community out there. Guess he thought the sea could wash away his sins."

"Nothing can wash away Draco Malfoy's sins."

Ron holds his hands up in surrender, "We aren't arguing on that point."

"We've got you a residence out there. Your things are waiting for you. The sooner you leave the better."

"Just like that? You've gone into my home, taken my things. You might be famous Harry Potter, but it doesn't exempt you from social politeness. How dare you?"

She's no stranger to the demands of the job. Leaving at a drop of a hat is common and often necessary. Working quickly not only means one less threat off the streets but offers the element of surprise. Wait too long and people start to talk, get jumpy, disappear again. But to be told like this, to have her things already gone from her London flat, it's unheard of. The Auror office likes to keep the appearance of giving its workers a choice even if they don't have one.

George lets out another snicker, shaking his head, "I told you she wouldn't take it well."

"I don't care how she's taking it," Harry grumbles, a bit of his old grit spilling into his tone. "This is a man who managed to disappear. We don't have the luxury of time here." A piece of parchment is shoved into her hand. "The top address is your new residence. The next two are places he's been spotted."

She stares down at the slightly slanted handwriting, the words blurring together as her eyes narrow, "And what exactly am I meant to do if I'm not Confunding or hexing? Do you want me to take him out to tea?"

"Exactly. He has a magical item, a Time Turner that we believe uncaptured Death Eaters are after. We need you to get information about the item, figure out if he even has it, if it's still in his family."

Ron lets out a huff, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, "You should just tell her, Harry. She'll be more upset if you don't."

"Tell me what?" Keilee spins towards Ron, who gives her a pathetic shrug. "What aren't you telling me, Potter?"

Harry sighs, scratching at the back of his head, "Until the threat is nullified, we need you to – er – well, we need – "

"Spit it out already," she growls, eyes ablaze.

"We need you to watch over him which will require nearly constant contact," Harry breathes, the words coming all at once.

"And just how long am I meant to put up with him?"

Another awkward glance, another attempt at not making eye contact as Harry shifts uncomfortably from side to side, "We're working as quickly as possible to track down the Death Eaters. They've been...evasive."

"Perfect," hands fly into the air, coming down hard on bare thigh. "Bloody perfect. Send me off while you all shove your thumbs up your arses. Honestly, Potter."

George steps around Harry, taking hold of Keilee's shoulders, "We don't have much of a choice. Half the office is still watching over Hogwarts. We're spread thin." He softens his grip, tipping her chin up. Gentle eyes capture hers, his thumb working over the smooth skin of her cheek. "Please, Kei."

"Don't look at me like that, Weasley," she breathes out, shutting her eyes to cut off the intensity of his gaze.

When she opens her eyes, George has stepped back, wearing a cheeky smirk, "My apologies. We need you to do this. No one else can."

"No one else wants to," she corrects.

George shrugs, "That too. I'll come visit if and when I can. We'll all write."

"You make it sound like I'm leaving forever."

Everyone stares back at her, their eyes not quite daring to meet her own. Behind them is a sea of understanding, of intricate knowledge, and a keen ability to read emotion. The words don't need to be said. One screw up, one person who forced her hand, and now they're sending her away. Away from her friends. Away from a support system. Away from glittering lights and cheery laughter and the only escape from endless nights of guilt and grief.

She lets them all sit in the silence for a few minutes before clearing her throat, submitting her new address to memory, "Well, as you've said, time is of the essence. No use wasting any more of it."

With one last glance at the group, she pops away.

*****

Weeks. Weeks spent in stiff dresses sipping overly priced coffee making head throbbing small talk with overly dressed wait staff and purebloods on their seventh vacation of the year. Weeks of slipping silently through sandy streets hoping for a glimpse of snow-white, a hint of his biting cologne. Weeks of fruitless efforts to pin down a man who is nothing more than whispers and smoke.

He's been here. People know him. An elusive shut-in with an obnoxiously sporadic routine. A gentleman, soft-spoken, and polite. A deeply sad individual, trying to shed a troubled past. The only predictable thing about Draco Malfoy is that everyone knows him as someone different and none of them have it right. After weeks of nothing, Keilee abandons the search. Draco isn't a flight risk. His curiosity will get the better of him. Drop an address here, a stray plan here and he'll turn up if only to tell her to go away.

"What're you doing here?"

The rich sent of mahogany washes together with sea salt and horses. His shoes crunch against the straw littering the barn floor, cold eyes sizing her up. Keilee stands her ground, hands resting on her hips, lips pursed in a thin line. He's not changed at all. Snow-white hair slicked back, pale skin standing out against a jet-black suit. Rings glitter on his fingers, cuff links catching the mid-afternoon sun. He still wears his emotions on his face, nose, and lips, and eyebrows pulling into frustration or confusion as if controlled by his heart.

"I could ask you the same. What would daddy say if he could see you now, standing amongst horse shit and flies?"

Draco's shoulders barely rise, his suit jacket quickly straightened out, "Wouldn't know."

"He finally get tired of your tantrums?"

"What're you wearing," Draco's gaze drops, tugging up over her pants and sweater, lingering on the colorful embroidery of a favorite jacket.

Keilee smirks, enjoying his clumsy attempt at changing the topic, "They're called jeans and if you think these are vile you should see what I wear on the weekends."

"Most unnatural," Draco's nose crinkles.

Not usually one to mince words, she cuts right to the point. He'll only stay for as long as she's got his attention, "While I appreciate your input on my clothing choices, I haven't come here to discuss such trivial matters."

"What have you come to discuss?"

Keilee shoots a look around the barn, aware of the workers shooting them stares and lingering in their jobs, "Perhaps we can talk somewhere more private?"

"I assume you know where I live."

"Very intuitive."

He nods, shoving his hands deep in his pant's pockets, "I serve dinner at seven and won't tolerate tardiness." He spins on his heel, pausing in the barn doorway, his silhouette cast across the floor. "I expect appropriate dress, Ms. Holloway."

"Naturally, Mr. Malfoy."

He spins back toward her, his features soft, pain in his words, "Draco. Just Draco."


	2. About As Surprising As

The Dark Lord. And Keilee. Who the hell does she think she is, coming in and turning his expertly crafted new life upside down, shaking out what remains of the skeletons in meticulously dusted corners and closets? Rubbish, the whole damn thing. What an absolutely rubbish idea; Death Eaters and Time Turners, ridiculous.

Draco stares across the table at her. Her and her stupid dress; with her stupid makeup, and stupid jewelry, and stupid hair framing her stupid face perfectly. He was hoping she'd be late or improperly dressed or she'd not know what fork to use first. In truth, Draco hasn't taken formal dinner in years. What's the point with no one to entertain? Tea and biscuits would've been more appropriate, would've felt more comfortable. The suits, the expensive meals, the show, the grandeur of the Malfoy name; it isn't him anymore. At least it's not who he wants to be.

Quite simply, he was hoping the whole thing would overwhelm her. She'd stroll up to the house, intimidating by the looming windows and rolling gardens. Keilee was never one for uppity society and polite etiquette. She was the least proper girl he'd ever come across. Instead of being intimidated, Keilee floated across the polished floor, waiting patiently by her chair for Draco to pull it out. She's said please and thank you at the appropriate times, not slurping the soup or downing her whole goblet of wine in one sip. He doesn't know if he should be furious or shocked. This is not the girl he knew at Hogwarts.

"And they're quite certain this group is after the device?" Draco finally spits out because the silence is so much worse than hearing what she has to say.

Brilliant blue eyes settle on him, a million secrets swirling in them, "Quite certain. I must ask you to stop avoiding my question, Mr. Malfoy. I don't enjoy being here any more than you like having me."

"I don't know."

"You don't know if you like having me here or you don't know where it is?"

"Don't mince my words, Kei," Draco reprimands. "I don't know where the Time Turner is. I wasn't even aware we had one."

"Ms. Holloway. We are not friends and you may not address me as such."

"Only because you never allowed a friendship," Draco grumbles. Almost instantly he realizes just how childish the words sound, his cheeks flushing pink. "Not that I would've tried."

"Only because you're a self-centered git."

Draco's palm comes down hard against the polished tabletop, "Only because you never allowed me to be anything but!"

"Only because you aren't capable." 

Her smooth tone is infuriating, the way his words just seem to bounce right off of her. He was hoping for fiery anger, a slew of curses. The calm stare, the bored frown on her lips, it all just makes the red devil inside of him grow. This is unnatural, uncomfortable. They don't politely throw insults at each other. They fight, so close to knuckle on cheek that at times it hurts worse than the words themselves. Who is this person sitting in front of him? 

"Just like you aren't capable of trust. I tried. You shoved back every time."

"Trust?" Keilee scoffs, giving him the slightest of eye rolls. "You nearly killed Ron! You spent a whole school year figuring out how to let Death Eaters in! You threw the one chance you had at redemption away! If that garners trust you've got a twisted sense of the word."

"I saved your life!" Draco snarls, his chair toppling to the ground with a crack as he flies forward.

Both are now standing, their bodies leaning over the table, chests heaving. Draco's knuckles burn from the force of his grip on the table, Keilee's eyes blazing to match her hair. Her fingers are curled around her wand though it remains at her side, pointed towards the floor. There's the Keilee he remembers. 

"You are behaving like a child," Keilee draws a sharp breath, his childhood nemesis quickly put back in her box as she smooths out the front of her dress, retaking her seat. "And I swear if the next words out of your mouth are you started it, I'm leaving you to the wolves."

"Then I will refrain."

"I'm glad to see you've learned restraint since Hogwarts."

Draco grins, "You'd be surprised what I can learn."

"I'm quite certain I won't be. You are about as surprising as a blank sheet of parchment."

He's used to her cut downs. Keilee likes to keep people at arm's length. The only people Draco's ever seen her be friendly with are the Weasley's. A bet taken too far saw him and Blaise trying to get her to go to the Yule Ball with one of them. Draco spent months trying to woo her; flowers and notes and chocolates. In the end, she turned them both down, going with George.

At the time he did it for conquest because there had never been a girl who turned down the affections of Draco Malfoy. She wasn't particularly pretty, another face in the crowd of females at Hogwarts. The only unique thing about her was her hair and even that blended in amongst her group of friends. They had absolutely nothing in common. Keilee is half-blood, raised in the muggle world. She detests blood purity; thought the whole idea was ghastly. And yet he couldn't let her die. He'd lied for her, risked his own life to save hers. Because she knew his secret. Because she showed him kindness when no one else was willing to.

"And you are as surprising as a box of fireworks, liable to explode at the slightest of pressure."

Keilee stands once again, pushing in her chair, "At least people look at me. They're eyes slide right over you, look through you like you're just a stain on the wallpapering. But that's what you want, isn't it? To be invisible, to have people forget. They haven't. They won't. You are a stain, Draco Malfoy, a big black ugly thing that kills anything and anyone who falls into your twisted trap of chivalry and polite society. You are a joke."

"At least you'll be laughing."

She shoots him one last stern look, the vein in her neck throbbing, "Don't get your hopes up. I'll be back tomorrow. I suggest you write to your father tell him you'll be popping in. Nice little family reunion."

"And I guess you think you'll be coming along?"

For the first time, Draco sees the flash of diamonds on her ring finger, "A mister should never leave his missus home alone."

"No."

Keilee shrugs, "You're under the protection of the Auror office now, you don't get a choice."

"Is this your idea of a joke?" Draco spits back, his temper flaring, "I wouldn't marry you under pain of death."

That grin, the half-laugh. It was the first thing Draco ever noticed about Keilee, really noticed about her, her smile. Never quite there, her lips and the sparkle in her eye always hiding her true feelings. It shouldn't have frustrated him as much as it did. People were always easy for Draco to read though. The sudden roadblock that she presented didn't sit well with him. No real surprise that she's still the same. Still hidden, still keeping secrets locked away, still refusing to be the open book most others are.

"It appears we agree," she brushes it off with a flick of the wrist, "If you want someone to blame, write Potter. He thought the introduction might go down a little smoother if I was presented as wife to be instead of bodyguard."

"And if I refuse?"

"Not an option!" she calls back over her shoulder, heading for the door. "Get your acting face on Mr. Malfoy, tomorrow at noon we're a happy couple."

"What am I supposed to say to them?"

The words hang in the empty hall, the click of the door echoing back at him. Wife to be...nonsense. His parents will never buy it. Not only did he spend his summers ripping into Harry and his gaggle of followers, he also spent it complaining to his father about Keilee. The only thing Lucius and Narcissa know about her is that she's a no-good, dirty-blooded, wisp of a girl who swears too much, drinks too much, and hangs out with the Weasley's. It'll never work. 

*****

She storms back into the house early the next morning, perching on the sitting room couch like she belongs there. Draco watches her down his nose as she sips the tea she's offered, politely thanking the help. At a quarter past eleven, she stands, staring at Draco expectantly, her hand hovering in the air. He spent all night thinking about this moment, wondering what he should tell his parents. In the end, he threw the last of seven started but unfinished letter into the fire and spent a sleepless night staring at the ceiling.

This shouldn't be allowed. Draco had his hearing. The Wizengamot found him a non-threat, a confused boy who, if removed from negative influence, could be reformed. He'd done that. He'd left his family, agreed to suspend magical use for three years, and started his life over. They can't come in now and destroy all of that. She can't do this.

"I won't do it," Draco announces, keeping his seat, eyes fixated on the spattering of ground tea at the bottom of his cup.

Keilee lets out an exaggerated sigh, "You have to."

"I'll have father send it."

"Are you daft?" She scoffs, dropping her hand. "Didn't I spend last night explaining to you that a group of Death Eaters are after it to bring Lord Voldemort back? And you want it mailed?"

"Perhaps I forgot, what with all the yelling and slinging of insults."

"Tell someone who cares. We're leaving now."

Draco maintains his stiff position, the rise and fall of his chest wrinkling his shirt, "How are we getting there?"

"Well," Keilee moves over to him, once again holding her hand out expectantly, "seems as you still have a year left on your disapparation ban and there's a bit of confusion on if you can disparate with the help of another, we'll be using the Floo Network. I assume this monstrosity you call your home has a fireplace connected."

"Yes."

"Then by all means," she flicks her wrist in the direction of the hall, "lead the way."

Resigned to the fact there is no possible way out of this, Draco stands. He leads them out of the sitting room and through the winding corridors towards his sleeping chambers. Getting a fireplace connected to the Floo Network took immense negotiations. The Ministry wasn't keen on Draco having the ability to move about by magic. Disapparation was completely out of the question. The Wizengamot explained it's exceptionally tricky to track if one does it in quick succession. Draco thought that was an oversight on the Ministry's part but refrained from expressing those opinions. Portkeys are too arduous, having to register each one. The Floo Network was the best option.

They allowed him one fireplace, tacking on a warning its use would be highly monitored and the Ministry reserved the right to pop in and ask questions about who has been using it. The answer has always been the same. Draco has no school friend he wishes to keep in contact with, no one visits, no one would want to. In the eyes of the world, Draco Malfoy is and always will be a Death Eater and a killer.

"What did you do with your night?"

Keilee stops with her fist around a clump of Floo powder, "I spent the night complaining about you to George. Why do you care?"

Draco smirks, enjoying the narrow-eyed curiosity and her pouty frown; "A man should know a thing or two about his fiancé before introducing her to his parents. I went to his brother's funeral, Fred."

"Are you trying to win points, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Draco." He takes a step forward, curling his hand around Keilee's, the two of them stepping into the now green flames, "Is it working?"

"No."

He shrugs, giving a nonchalant frown, "Rather cozy in here."

"Don't touch me," she retorts in annoyance. "Ready to introduce me to mum and dad?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

Keilee gives a sharp nod, shutting her eyes, "Malfoy Manor."


	3. New Roommate

There's a sharp tug in her gut, nails digging into her arm with the sharp bite of a knife. For a few heart-stopping seconds everything is a haze of green and black. In the distance, someone is screaming, calling out her name over and over. Keilee fights against the spinning, trying to reach out to the panicked voice, her fingers slipping through the other persons. And then, like the sun bursting through the fog, everything comes into crisp focus.

They aren't at the Malfoy's. This room is dark and dingy, lit by a single pull bulb buzzing from a thin wire. It smells of rot, puddles of brackish water collecting on the slimy stone flooring. Her eyes sweep the place, wand held out in front of her. She whips around at the sound of whimpering, the scene in front of her sending her stomach into her throat. A hairy hand holds a knife to an exposed neck, feet kick out against the floor, his body twisting as he tries to escape. The thing holding him gives a toothy smile, taunting her as it pushes the blade further into Draco's skin, drawing a thin line of blood. The door behind her creaks, black cloaks flooding into the room.

"I _ncarcerous_!" Ropes snap around Draco's capture's legs, snaking up around his torso and arms. He tips, Draco spinning out of the way as the man falls. Tugging Draco towards her, Keilee spins on her heel, " _Impedimenta_!"

One of the advancing Death Eaters freezes, wand hand held in midair, lips frozen apart, a curse hanging on them. Curse Potter for sending her in alone. Seven on two is never good odds. As Keilee shoots off more curses, ducking and dodging the ones returned, Draco cowers behind her, mirroring her steps.

"We need to get to the door," she hisses, spinning out of the way as a jet of green light shoots past her ear. "And for Merlin's sake, help out."

As one of the Death Eaters lunges at them, Draco grabs her by the shoulders, tugging her out of the way, "I'm not allowed to use combat spells."

"We're under attack – _Crucio_! – I'm sure the Ministry will understand."

They stand back to back, moving in a tight circle as they edge their way towards the door. Jets of light zoom towards them, exploding the brick walls, sending dust raining down on them. The door seems miles away, black cloaks and unfriendly wands blocking a clear path.

"Because you said so?" Draco hisses back. "As if you have that kind of power."

Keilee makes a sharp turn, directing Draco with her shoulder blades, "Because there's seven of them and without your help, we'll both be dead. You fight. I'll deal with the Ministry."

"And I'm supposed to trust you?"

"I've not let them kill you yet, have I?"

"I thought you said saving someone's life doesn't warrant trust," Draco spits back.

Shooting off another round of spells, Keilee nudges Draco closer to the door, "Fine. Don't help. But if you die it isn't my fault."

Despite his snips, Draco flies into the fight. " _Petrificus Totalus_!"

One of the black cloaks goes stiff, tipping to the ground with a muffled thud. The pressure against Keilee's back disappears, Draco no longer cowering, but drawing himself up to full height, shooting off his own curses, and throwing his arms out to block the ones thrown back. Electricity sparks in the room. A jet of green light moves as if through molasses, its target Keilee's chest. She can hear her own heart, beating steadily in her ears, her breath coming out in smooth huffs. At least it will be peaceful, quick. Hopefully, Draco can figure out how to get himself out of this mess.

"Keilee!"

A wall of flesh rams into her, time snapping back to a start. In a tumble of limbs and flying hair and more jets of light, their bodies spill through the far door, landing hard on flagstone. A cold, smooth hand, like granite, jerks her up, pulling her along the dimly lit corridor, and flying around a corner. White-blonde flashes before her vision, concerned grey eyes sweeping over her face. She can hear the cries of people searching for loved ones, yelling out as they're found. The smoky scent of brimstone and fire fills her nose and for a second she's back at the battle. Caught between a wall of rock and intimidating masks, it had been the same flash of blonde that saved her then too. Saved her when she had been so ready to die, so ready to give up the fight.

"Where are we?"

Draco shoots a look back at her, "I don't know, but we need to get out of here before they find us again."

"Hold on tight."

"What?"

"Hold on!"

Her stomach flies into her mouth, body feeling like it's being forced through a straw, and then in a snap, she pops through, feet hitting soft grass, heart still hammering too low in her gut. For one wretched second, she thinks they've followed, a pair of polished black shoes appearing before her vision. And then his voice cuts through and she knows, a thousand Death Eaters would be better than this.

"Disapparation? The Killing Curse? Dozens of hexes?" His voice rings out clear and smooth, heavy with a tone of reprimand. "You know he's not supposed to use that type of magic."

Keilee pulls herself to her feet, dusting off the front of the dress she was supposed to be meeting the Malfoys in, taking up a protective stance in front of Draco. Under any other circumstances, watching him get his just desserts would be like coming into a million galleons, but he was following her orders, doing what she told him. Quite honestly it's nothing short of a miracle that he not only listened but jumped in the way of a Killing Curse to save her life. She can't just stand by and let Potter administer the punishment for disobeying a Ministry magic ban without putting up some kind of a fight.

"We were under attack."

"So you thought it'd be okay?"

She shrugs, frankly, that's her only line of defense here. If Potter doesn't think being under threat of a Death Eater attack is enough to justify Draco using combat spells then there's nothing she can do. "Either he helped or we both died."

"You're bleeding," Harry presses his thumb to the area just above Keilee's left eyebrow. When he pulls it away the pad is covered in shiny red.

"Hazard of the job," shooting a glance back at Draco, she takes Harry by the arm, getting him to walk with her as she drops her voice to a whisper. "He pushed me out of the path of a Killing Curse. I'd be dead. He could be dead right now."

Harry stops, turning, staring over her shoulder at what she assumes is Draco. "He can't be left alone. If they knew you were headed to the Manor they likely know where he lives or are at least monitoring the Floo Network."

"I figured as much. I killed two of them, but there's still five or six," her teeth work against the skin inside her bottom lip, the question rising in her throat refusing to be swallowed back down. "Are you going to wipe his memory?"

Potter shakes his head, "No. It can't happen again, Kei. One time I can explain away, but – "

"It won't happen again. I'll figure out another way to get to Malfoys. We'll walk if we have to."

Harry grins, "Something tells me he wouldn't be happy about that."

"I'm not sure he's too happy about anything anymore," Keilee laughs back, shaking her head. "He's insufferable."

"He's your responsibility."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it."

After a few seconds of hesitation, Harry nods, "No it doesn't. Keep him safe, Keilee, whatever that means now."

With a twist of his head, Harry disappears into the scenery, leaving a blank spot on the horizon where his body stood only seconds ago. Sighing, Keilee rubs at her face, hands coming away covered in sticky blood and black soot. Her head pounds, shoulder throbbing from where it crashed into the floor, little white spots appearing before her vision. The tips of her fingers on her wand hand have gone a sickish blue-black, the skin shriveling.

" _Detestari et Abierunt_ ," In a flash of white light the fingertips return to normal. Fine for now.

Taking a deep breath, she gathers herself before turning back to Draco. He stands with his hands shoved into his pockets, head bent, eyes fixed on the ground. His body sways gently back and forth, wand tossed to the ground at his feet. "They're going to snap it, aren't they?"

"Get a hold of yourself," Keilee squats down, picking the wand up off the grass, handing it back. "It'll take more than Expelliarmus to get your wand snapped."

Draco's head pops up, his eyes wide, "What's going to happen then?"

"It looks like you've gone and got yourself a new roommate, Mr. Malfoy."

~~~~~~

Keilee is lead through a maze of upper-level hallways by a wrinkly, hunched house-elf who introduces herself as Pym. She mumbles under her breath as they walk, nearly tripping over her floppy, bat-like ears as she rounds corners. Stopping, she slides a heavy-looking black key into the silver slot before handing it over to Keilee.

"Master Malfoy sleeps on the west wing. Yous 'as got the east wing overlookin' the water," squeaks the elf, hovering in the doorway. "Bedroom through the doors, loo through the other. Yous be callin' if yous need anythin'."

After a quick thank you from Keilee, the elf hobbles away. She's left standing in a massive sitting room, decorated with ornately carved, black couches cushioned in a light grey. Matching chairs, writing desk, and bookshelves take up the rest of the space. A fire crackles at one end of the room, the hearth a beautiful white and black marble. Wandering through another set of double doors, Keilee comes into what will be her new bedroom for the foreseeable future. A bed to match the couches sits against monochrome flowered wallpaper. The blankets and pillows laid out over it are varying shades of grey. Gently, she runs her fingers over the peacock feathers etched into the mirrored armoire. What really catches her attention are the two full-length windows on the far side of the room. Hung with heavy black curtains, they look out towards the ocean, casting the room in a soft, hazy glow as the sunlight bounces off the water.

Cranking the latches, Keilee smiles as a rush of salty ocean air washes through the room, making the curtains dance in the breeze. Despite the rest of the house being fairly modernized and given a lighter more airy palette, this room seems largely untouched by the upgrades. That's just fine with Keilee. It feels less like Draco has been in here and more like it's her own. She's perfectly content to be able to forget he's even here while staying in this room. The door opens behind her. Pym pushes a cart of tea into the sitting room, announcing Draco as he wanders in after her.

He lifts a clean, white linen, "For your head."

"I'm perfectly capable of tending to my own wounds, thank you."

Draco nods, setting the cloth down on the writing desk. Pym pours two cups of tea, ushering them both towards the couch, "Yous should be lettin' the master look afta yous. Quite the healer master is."

By this time, Draco has situated himself on the other end of the couch, pulling his wand out and trying to lean in to have a look at Keilee's forehead cut, still oozing blood and caked in dust. As Draco scoots closer, she spins away, moving to the couch across from him.

"Don't point that thing at me, ever." She warns, features going stony, muscles flexing under dirt-streaked skin.

Draco's brow furrows, "You're injured."

"And I'm perfectly capable of taking care of it myself. That stunt you pulled doesn't mean we're friends."

"I believe the stunt you're referring to is saving your life," Draco props his ankle on his knee, lips tugged up into a smirk that Keilee glowers at. "Again."

She bites back the urge to ask him to remove himself from her furniture. It isn't hers, she'd never be able to afford anything as lavish, and he has every right to do what he wants in his own home even if it is infuriating. "I didn't ask you to the first time and I certainly didn't this time."

"Well, I couldn't very well let you die. Who else was going to tell Potter to sod off? If I hadn't saved you I'd likely be halfway to Azkaban by now for using unauthorized magic and I simply can't do that. Father says it's dreadful."

Keilee lets out a huff, lifting the gold detailed teacup to her lips, "He'd certainly know after two stints there. Surprised the man isn't drooling over himself by now. I guess it's hard to take a soul that isn't there."

"Don't talk about my father that way!"

"Oohohoo," she chuckles, amused. "Seems I've struck a nerve. Are you really still so ready to defend him after everything he's done? I'd go through it now, but the list is so long and I simply don't think we have the time."

"Shut up," Draco growls.

"Temper, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco glares at her, setting his own teacup down hard before standing, talking through clenched teeth, "I've arranged for your things to be brought over. If you need anything else make a list and Pym will get it for you. My only request is you stay out of my personal wing of the house and my study, the room across from the library, everything else is at your disposal."

Keilee watches as he goes, shutting the door behind him. He must be shaken up from the fight earlier. Draco Malfoy has never come across as a generous host. She was expecting some absurd talking to about not wandering or at least some bellyaching about having to open his doors to her especially after she had poked after his dad. The kindness, albeit stiff, leaves her feeling slightly off-kilter.

"Has he been ill lately?" Keilee questions Pym who hides in the corner of the room.

The house-elf grins brightly, limping across the shag carpeting, "No missus, not ill. Master is not a bad boy, jus' misunderstood. Sad and lonely he is. No one comes callin' anymore. Pym doesna think he hates yous, missus, only pretendin' me thinks. Protectin' him's heart."

"I assure you, Pym, Draco Malfoy knows nothing but hate. He's vile and wicked. Whatever that was, it's an act."

Pym gives a small bow, "Yous be forgivin' my sharin', missus."

Nodding, Keilee produces a sheet of paper and a quill; setting it to write as she dictates a list of things she'll need from town. Once complete, she hands it over to Pym who looks it over thoughtfully before tucking the parchment into the folds of her stained tea cozy. After a deep bow, the house-elf collects the tea things and wheels the cart out. As the door clicks shut the room lapses into a peaceful silence, the sound of waves crashing against the shore washing through.


	4. George

Months pass in stiff silence. Keilee flits out of rooms as Draco enters, carrying the heavy, sweet scent of wine behind her. She doesn't wear stagnation well. The tan drains out of her skin, replaced by deep blue and purple of veins. At times she walks around as if her eyes are closed, bumping into walls and tables that haven't moved since she arrived. Her dresses and inappropriate pants with rips and spatters of paint that were once tight, showing off her frame, now hang off of boney shoulders and hips.

Sometimes he stands outside of her sitting room doors, listening, trying to pick up some glimmer of her plans, but it's always the same. Crying, pleading, and whispered curses. On occasion, he'll find his hand hovering over the silver knob, half a mind to burst in and offer comfort. After all, Draco is no stranger to loneliness, to the deep sick feeling of loss. His friends and loved ones may not be dead, but it doesn't mean they aren't gone, ripped from his life by the battle...by others forcing his hand...by some of his own choices. 

Pym might have spoken out of turn, but she wasn't wrong. Draco may have a certain dislike for the witch who seems to want to drown herself in muggle culture and alcohol, but it's never risen to the level of hate she holds for him. Keilee never did anything to him but throw around insults and toss the occasional hex in his direction, nothing he probably didn't deserve. At times her jibes were even welcomed entertainment, a chance to flex his sharp tongue. Draco often thought there was an aura of playfulness behind the poking, the potential for a friendship. Keilee obviously doesn't agree.

"What's wrong with her?" Draco demands of Pym as she delivers his morning meal. "Has her wound become infected? It should be healed by now."

The house-elf frowns gently, "Pym not be knowing, Master. Missus Holloway cries constant, sir, not from infection. Too much inside, me thinks, too much lonely. Heavy heart."

"Take her to the beach and stop providing her with cases of wine. I'm tired of the smell."

"Will only do to upset the Missus."

"Do as I say."

Draco shoots a hard glance at the help, his hand raised. He'd never hit Pym, but he's threatened it plenty. The idea of ever letting boney knuckle meet the sagging folds of her skin makes his stomach churn, memories of Dobby cowering in the corner, trying to avoid the sharp end of his father's walking stick washing over him in waves. When he was young the wheezing house-elf was his only friend. He'd always felt a kind of pity for the creature anytime his father's shoe would come down against its squared little skull.

"As yous be wishin', Master," Pym gives a deep bow, her long, up-turned nose sweeping the hardwoods, before shuffling out of the room.

Copper dances against a cloudy grey sky, twisting and twirling in stunning patterns across soft blue. Fingers trail through sand, picking it up and letting it fall through the cracks like time slipping through an hourglass. He watched from the shadows as Pym helped her down the stairs and out the front door, Keilee shaking like a leaf the whole time. Curiosity drew him down the same path, lagging behind to avoid a fight. He's never seen Keilee weak. She always presented as a stone wall, impenetrable, unwavering. This new behavior doesn't fit with the picture he has in his head. Somehow this weakness makes her seem more human, more approachable.

Movement up the coast catches his attention, pulling his gaze from the vibrant display in front of him. Another spot of red fills his vision. In an instant, Keilee has thrown the quilt from her shoulders, stumbling into a run, her thin frame crashing into the other persons. They pick her up spinning her around in a slow circle, lips pressing into her sunken in cheek. The two walk back up the beach, Draco recognizing George Weasley as they grow closer. Keilee lays out the blanket for them to sit on, instantly laying her head on the man's shoulder. Draco creeps closer, trying to pick up on the conversation.

"I wrote," George explains, picking up Keilee's hand and playing with her fingers. "When you didn't answer I thought something happened. Harry told me you'd been injured."

Draco's stomach rolls watching them and he harshly swallows down the burn in his throat. He's always envied closeness, emotional and physical. He never had it, not even at a young age. His parents rarely showed affection to each other, let alone him. His desperate attempts to keep his family alive stripped away the ability for him to partake in the pairing off that happened in sixth year. After the war, after what happened, there's not a witch or wizard that would want anything to do with him and the idea of a muggle friendship has been nothing more than a fever dream. No. Draco has resigned himself to never really understanding the closeness of true friendship or the gentle touch of someone who loves him. No amount of self-improvement on his part will change the minds of those who wrote him off as the villain a long time ago.

"I've been staying at Malfoy's," Keilee replies, flicking her wrist toward the house. George doesn't even both a twitch to look back at it. "After the attack, I didn't think it was wise to leave him unattended. Are you here to stay?"

"Only for a few days and that's really more than I should." Draco lets out the breath he's been holding at George's answer. Hosting one unfriendly face is already pushing his generosity and patience. He's not sure he could hold the façade of gracious host for too long with both of them around. "You look ill, Kei."

"I'm not sleeping. I can't," she curls her fingers into the spaces between George's. "I've run out of the potion Hermione made for me and everything I make turns out wrong. I've always been rubbish at potions..."

Draco grins at this, remembering her particularly atrocious attempt at making a sleeping draught. Snape had to rush everyone out of the classroom, the fumes rising from Keilee's cauldron threatening to boil the skin off everyone present. Goyle landed in the hospital wing for a week as Madame Pomfrey tried to regrow nearly half his face.

George laughs at something Keilee says, his head thrown back, "You need to start eating again and stop drinking a crate of wine a day, silly girl. He'd want you to stay strong, to be able to defend yourself if you need to."

"Don't call me that," Keilee stiffens, jerking away from George.

He holds his hands up in surrender, "Sorry."

Keilee appears at dinner that night with blush in her cheeks and an air of civility. She laughs and jokes with George, not once touching the goblet of wine set out before her. Draco watches the two in mute fascination over his own glass. He's never seen her this relaxed up close, with this many walls down. He gets a glimpse into the reasons why boys in school fell over themselves to get her attention, why she was able to have her pick of friends from the other houses. Keilee is extraordinarily pretty and unnaturally sweet when not keeping up a guise of cold uncaring. She even agrees to drinks in the sitting room once the dinner things have been cleared away. 

"I must insist you stay here, George." Keilee comments after the third time George states he must be going.

The Weasley shifts uncomfortably, shooting a quick glance at Draco, "I'm not sure it's for you to decide, Kei."

"If staying will help her piss poor mood, I must agree," Draco remarks, carefully studying the way the light refracts in his whiskey glass.

The air of civility is thrown off like a cloak, "My piss poor attitude? You lurk around corners and shut doors in my face, moping about how unfair life is like some wounded animal."

"At least I'm not drinking myself into oblivion."

Keilee lets out a guttural growl, shoving off George's touch and flying out of her chair, "You have no idea what it's like! You robbed me of the chance to be with him and I'm doing my best to deal with that. At least I'm trying! What're you doing? Hiding? Pretending that if you disappear long enough, keep your face and name out of the papers that in another few centuries none of it will matter? People are dead because of you!"

"And you're not!" Draco slams his glass down on the table, seeing red. His nose almost brushes against hers as he gets in her face. "Because of me! Because I saved your pathetic life; not once but twice and you can't even manage a thank you!"

Pain, hot and searing, erupts against Draco's left cheek. The skin burns as if struck by a poker. He vibrates with anger, meeting Keilee's flaming glare with a fire of his own. Her hatred for him crackles through the room like electricity, filling his mouth with the coppery taste of it. The lights flicker, bulbs bursting, glass cutting through the thin linen curtains. Draco staggers back, his legs hitting the seat behind him.

"Kei," George rushes forward, catching the girl as she starts to sway.

As Draco lowers himself into his chair, he notices the thin trail of blood running from Keilee's nose and flowing over her upper lip. He meets George's raised eyebrows with an apathetic shrug, nudging his head in the direction of the doors. "Upstairs, east wing."

George returns about a half-hour later, sinking into the chair opposite Draco with a tired sigh. His eyes survey the room. Draco took the time to clean up the mess, repairing the windows and curtains, the lights once again casting a cheery yellow glow over the soft blue room. Draco nudges the decanter of whiskey in George's direction, the other man picking it up with a grateful smile.

"She's sick, ya know. Doesn't like talking about it and it's not my place to say how, but – " he shakes his head, letting out another long sigh. "It's worse than she lets on."

Draco grimaces, "I see where I sit with the Ministry, sending damaged goods to keep me safe."

"Don't. She's not here to hear it and I won't put up with it. You don't have to understand, but try and be sympathetic."

"What, no jab about me not having a heart?"

George shrugs, "The insults are Keilee's thing. She's got her own reasons to hate you, but quite honestly I don't have the energy to. She's taking longer to heal than some of us. She's strong though and way too hard-headed for her own good. She makes a brilliant friend if you're patient and let her be. She can keep you safe."

"I'm not the one pushing away a friendship," Draco corrects. "She's a pain in my side and has been since the day she came to Hogwarts, but I've never hated her."

"Does she know?"

"How could she? I'm not allowed a word edgewise and when I try she finds a way to turn it into a fight. How did your family do it?"

George lets out a laugh; "Fred compared her to a cat once. She picked Ginny. After that, if we wanted to be her friend we just hung around our sister, got in a few comments, left little breadcrumbs for her to follow up on if she wanted. Fred spent a whole summer just bumping his hip into hers anytime they passed each other on the stairs. One day she just did it back."

"That really worked? She didn't tell him to sod off?"

Another hearty laugh, George's tongue made loose by another glass of whiskey. This is honestly what Draco was hoping for. He doesn't want to be her best friend, but it'd be nice to at least be civil towards each other. Having someone to talk with over tea or a nightcap would be a welcomed change to the crushing silence that usually hangs around the house.

"She left marbles on the steps, enchanted them to tip anyone who walked on them over the banister or shriek at each step. Fred thought it was hilarious," George sets his glass down, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "You've got to find one thing and stick with it until she either slams the door or joins in. She really hates you, mate. She never wanted to be saved and she has a hard time seeing people who used to follow Voldemort as anything but Death Eaters. Don't kid yourself into thinking gaining her trust will be anything but an uphill battle."

Draco nods, chewing at his thumb as he lets this settle over him. Somewhere underneath the accusing stares and tough exterior, Keilee is just another girl trying to pick up the pieces of a life the battle tore to shreds. That's something Draco can understand, can connect with.

"But you think I could?"

George shrugs, "I don't really know you besides what The Prophet has printed and what people said at school, but you can't be all bad. Harry said you couldn't kill Dumbledore and despite her not wanting you to, you've saved Kei's life twice now. Show her that guy."

"Why are you helping me?"

"She's miserable and the constant traveling as an Auror doesn't really allow for her to have many friends outside the office. I don't want her to be sad and lonely for the rest of her life and, seems as she's stuck with you for the foreseeable future, there's no point in the constant fighting."

The question pushes against Draco's lips, begging him to just ask it. If it doesn't come out now, it likely never will. He'll never have the courage to ask Keilee himself and George seems more than willing to share whatever information he's looking for. At least if the twin shuts down and refuses to continue the conversation he'll know.

"The outburst, the windows, and the lights and the copper taste..."

George nods, "I've only seen it twice before, the first time Fred and she kissed and when she saw Fred's body. No one knows what it is. I'm not sure she can control it. I've got a room at the inn and I'll do back if you want me to – "

"Not at all necessary. The door across the hall from her rooms is a spare bedroom. You're welcome here as long as you'd like to stay. I've not seen her smile before you showed up."

"We've been through quite a bit together," he yawns, rubbing at his eyes. "She might not say thank you, but I am, thank you for saving her life."

~~~~~

Draco wanders downstairs after waiting nearly an hour for Pym to show up with his breakfast. Lousy house-elf. The whole lot of them have gotten awfully mouthy since Granger went poking around in business that wasn't hers to meddle in. He was assured Pym was one of the good ones, happy to serve, not looking for freedom. An obvious lie.

Chatter pouring from the kitchen piques his interest, drawing him towards the closed swinging door. Inside, the usual spotless black and white is thrown into chaos. Keilee stands over the stove, a cigarette clamped in the corner of her mouth, stirring something yellow in a pan. Beside her, George works over a hot plate, swishing his wand towards the waffle maker, a few flying through the air and landing on a waiting plate.

As he waits for the pancakes to be flipped, George taps out a rhythm with the spatula. Keilee gives him her famous half-grin, swaying gently. A nostalgic glint comes to her eyes. George nudges her gently, laughing. "I said make me love myself so that I might love you. Don't make me a liar cause I swear to God when I said it I thought it was true." 

"Saint Calvin told me not to worry about you," Keilee starts in a smooth voice, putting on a thick, mock Irish accent. "But he's got his own things to deal with."

She tosses her arm around George's shoulders, the two spinning haphazard circles around the space, his gravelly voice mixing in with hers.

"There's really just one thing that we have in common; neither of us will be missed. A Saint Bernard sits at the top of the driveway; you always said how you loved dogs! I don't know if I count, but I'm trying my best when I'm howling and barking these songs."

George throws his head back, howling at the ceiling. Keilee falls into a fit of laughter, bits of ash floating off the end of her smoke, and scattering themselves across the floor and counters. It's intoxicating, watching their energy push against the meticulously cleaned tiles, and casting the kitchen in a warm, cheery glow.

With a flick of his wrist, Draco sends Keilee's cigarette flying through the air, landing in the sink under running water. It lets out a weak sizzle before extinguishing completely. He's not necessarily opposed to the habit, having picked it up and put it down half a dozen times himself, but there's a time and a place and the kitchen certainly isn't it.

"I'll only tolerate smoking in the parlor or outside, not in the garden though. It's ridiculously difficult to get anything to grow in the sand," He steps out of the doorway, lounging against a clear bit of counter. "What are you two doing?"

Keilee returns to the stove, stirring the pan again, "I'm cooking breakfast for George and I."

George rummages through the icebox, plucking out two more eggs and cracking them over the pan. Keilee spins towards him, pulling a face, her tongue stuck out at him. George laughs heartily, ruffling already rumpled hair, "He's putting up with the two of us, Kei. It's the least we can do."

"The least we can do is not blow his home up, which we haven't."

"Yet," Draco remarks. "Where did you learn how to cook?"

"Not all of us were born with a silver spoon in our mouths," Keilee shoots back bitterly.

Draco shoots a pleading look towards George who responds with a shrug. He was hoping having her friend around would soften Keilee. It appears she's quick to switch roles and even quicker to remind him where he stands.

"I'll remember to ask to be born poor next time around."

Keilee lets out an amused huff, "You'd be lucky to come back as bird shit next time around."

"Kei," George says sternly, dipping down and whispering something that causes the girl to erupt in a squeal of laughter.

Draco, feeling slightly uncomfortable as the two sink into quiet conversation, goes to fix up coffee. He tried to learn to cook, but everything came out burnt or soggy in the middle. After two months of living on toast, he sought out house help and got Pym who is still mysteriously missing. Coffee is the one thing Draco did get down, easy enough with the French Press and a bit of magic; grounds in, coffee out. He perfected the art amongst the rubbish in the Room of Requirement. Other students mentioned better ways to stave off tiredness, but Draco was never brave enough to try.

Plates of toast and waffles and bacon and pancakes and eggs adorn the dark wood of the dining table. The pot of coffee is passed around, everyone falling into silence as they eat. Draco watches George and Keilee. She bats away George's hand as he tries to steal bits of toast from her plate, her fork hitting playfully against his as he tries to spear the last bite of her eggs. How magical it must be to have friends to joke about with, someone to confide in, someone who understands you, to communicate with in just glances. A familiar ache starts in Draco's stomach, settling low in his chest, making his heart stutter.

Keilee looks away from George, catching Draco's watchful gaze. As her eyes meet his, copper erupts across his tongue, making his back teeth burn with the flavor. An uphill battle indeed.


	5. Bet

"He's insufferable," Keilee argues, grimacing at the glass of misty pink liquid George holds out to her, scooting further across the couch.

George sighs, shaking his head, "He's trying to help."

"More like poison me."

"Hasn't he proved he doesn't want you dead?" George responds in exasperation, setting the glass aside. "Let him try."

"Why? He's a Death Eater, George."

George lets out a chuckle, " _Reformed_ Death Eater, Kei."

"Did you watch him make it?"

"No."

"Then I'm not drinking it," Keilee responds, getting to her feet. "Not until I've searched every inch of his workspace."

She throws open the sitting room doors, flying down the stairs. She can hear two sets of feet coming after her but ignores them. George placing his trust in Malfoy hurts more than she lets on. George has been her comfort since his brother's death. George is her rock, her place of peace and serenity. George, who is now having secret, late-night conversations with a man she loathes. Looking into those eyes, so like Fred's, now offering nothing but a quick sip and a forever sleep just burns.

Keilee is stunned into stillness as she throws open the workspace doors across from the library. Various smoking cauldrons, rocks, and strange instruments litter the wooden workbenches. Herbs, rocks, vials, and creatures preserved in jars sit perched on the shelving that covers nearly every inch of the stone walls. Carved into the wood floor is a large circle with lines cutting through it. Unfamiliar symbols sit in smaller circles, a few of them looking similar to something she saw in Ancient Runes class. She whips around as someone behind her clears their throat, arms crossed over her chest. Narrowed eyes land on Draco, his foot dragging across the floor, eyes downcast, fingers working against the back of his neck.

"Little boys and their toys," Keilee flicks a metal triangle sitting on one of the workbenches closest to her. "I guess Severus really rubbed off on you."

Draco clears his throat, finally looking up, "It isn't for potions. It's for Alchemy."

"What's the difference?"

"Do you really want to know or are you looking for another reason to poke?"

"Why do you always assume the worst?" Keilee demands.

Malfoy shrugs, "Because it's all your capable of showing."

"Is not!"

He smirks, shaking his head; "You couldn't be nice to me if you tried."

"Bet."

She regrets the word the second it comes out of her mouth; such a childish word to go along with the most childish of traps. A trap she so easily let herself fall into. They used to play this game back at Hogwarts. One would get the other riled up, make some ridiculous accusations, and then one of them would say bet. It was always something stupid; I bet you can't sneak a toad into Snape's class, I bet you can't sneak from the Owlery and back without getting caught. They aren't children anymore though. She shouldn't have fallen into his clumsily laid trap.

"I'll take that bet."

Seeing no other choice, unless she wants the smug look to creep over Draco's face when she backs out, Keilee sighs, "Fine. What do you want?"

"You have to be nice to me for a whole week."

"Why?" Keilee demands.

Draco, now smirking, leans lazily against the doorframe, "I'm trying to prove a point."

"Fine. I'll be nice to you for a week, in exchange for you living like a muggle for a week; no magic, no house elf." She holds her hand out to Draco, staring down at it expectantly.

Draco's hand hovers next to hers, the heat radiating off of it warming her palm, "Why?"

It's Keilee's turn to smirk, "I'm trying to prove a point."

"You have to put in a good faith effort, no hiding in your room, you've got to try."

"Deal," Keilee closes the gap between their hands, giving Draco's a quick shake. "We're leaving for your parent's house a week from tomorrow. We'll be taking the train."

"You tricked me!" Draco calls after her.

Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, Keilee turns to look back at Draco, smirking, "You didn't ask for all the terms."

~~~ _Monday_ ~~~

Keilee stands on the front porch, cigarette clamped between her lips, staring at the spot George stood only moments ago. She knew the second the owl arrived but hoped he'd ignore it. Duty calls though. There are still Death Eaters out there. The faster the Aurors deal with them, the sooner she can leave this place. George left her with a plain envelope, but she hasn't the heart to open it. He usually only passes on mementos of Fred's found at the Burrow or the joke shop. Seeing his script, reading his words, it'd only feel like another knife in the heart.

Movement draws Keilee's attention. Shifting her gaze she catches a glimpse of Draco. He's carrying a wicker basket in one hand, a thick blanket flung over the other arm, "Have you got another one of those?"

Biting back a comment, Keilee pulls the packet from her pocket, offering it over, "There are matches inside."

Draco lets the fire lick at the end of the thin white stick, his cheeks hollowing out as he inhales. He lets the smoke float out over barely parted lips, pulling it back in through his nostrils. It would be an intoxicatingly sexy ritual to watch if it was anyone else doing it. Some people are meant to smoke; Draco Malfoy is one of those people.

"What's the basket for?" She questions as Draco hands the pack back.

He glances down at the thing as if he's forgotten he's carrying it, "We're going on a picnic."

"It's raining."

"I am still allowed to do some magic."

Keilee nods, "For now."

"Yes," Draco grins back at her. "For now."

Draco pulls out his wand, muttering under his breath. Warmth washes over Keilee and when she steps out from under the protection of the eaves, not a drop of wet touches her. He leads them down the front path, holding open the gate for her before continuing down towards the ocean. Keilee lags behind, watching him. Draco walks with his shoulders rolled back, head held high. An aura of confidence surrounds him. She can see the way his head twitches though, the way his shoulders stiffen as voices carry on the wind. This must be one of a handful of times he's left the safety of his estate for anything more than absolute necessity.

After finding a spot he seems happy with, Draco lays out the blanket, giving a slight bow before sitting. Seeing very few options, she really needs Draco on that train next Monday, and not wanting to step outside of the warmth created by the magic, Keilee sits. Draco unpacks the basket, pulling out cheese, sliced apples, oatcakes, Digestive biscuits, a few small cakes, and a bottle of Sherry. As he begins to arrange everything on the serving board, Keilee stares out at the ocean, envying the freedom of the waves crashing against the shore. How freeing it would be to climb into the icy waters, letting them carry her where they will.

"Keilee?"

"Mm," she rips her gaze away from the water, letting it settle on the top of Draco's head.

"Is Sherry alright, I've brought wine if not."

"Oh," she glances down at the bottle in Draco's hand, poised over a small glass, "I'll drink anything."

Draco grins at this, cocking an eyebrow, "So long as it comes out of a freshly opened bottle."

"So long as I watched it being made or opened, yes."

"Is that just a rule for me?"

Keilee takes the offered glass, letting the sweet aroma fill her nose, "I'm not in the habit of taking drinks from strangers, friendly or not."

"May I ask why?"

"Am I allowed to say no?" Keilee challenges, crooking her own eyebrow. Draco only said she had to put in an effort at being nice, for her, even being here fulfills that obligation. However, Malfoy has always been tricky. He's likely to change up the rules with no rhyme or reason. She's going to do everything she can to keep him from weaseling out of his end of the bargain.

Draco grins, leaning back on one arm, staring out at the sea, "I want you to be friendly, civil, I don't expect you to share every secret or spill every detail about your life. If you wish not to answer simply say so. I only ask we be honest in everything we say, not just this week. If this living arrangement is going to work, I must insist on honesty."

"Then I wish not to answer. I can agree to honesty though, so long as it goes both ways."

He nods, "If that's what you want."

"May I ask you a question, under the same terms?"

Draco lets out a grunt, sliding a slice of cheese into his mouth. Taking this as a yes, Keilee drains her glass, setting it aside before twisting to fully look at Draco. "Besides proving a point, why do you want me around? I got the impression you didn't like me any more than I like you. I don't understand why you'd want any kind of a relationship now."

He lets out a long sigh, pushing himself back into a sitting position. For a long while, he just stares ahead and Keilee begins to think this means he's choosing not to answer. Not knowing what else to do, she pulls a cigarette out, once again offering the package to Draco. He glances at it but makes no move to take one.

"We've been put together," Draco finally says, intently studying the cherry liquid in his glass. "While it's not an ideal situation for either of us, I don't intend to spend the next however long fighting. I thought if perhaps we could just sit together it could make this time a bit more bearable."

The insult sits on the tip of Keilee's tongue, weighing heavy. Trying to wipe it away, she drags her teeth over the spongy surface, choosing to take a few long drags from her smoke before trusting herself to open her mouth, "Don't you have others to sit with, friends from school?"

Draco lets out a huff, turning his head so Keilee can't see his face, "A lot has changed since school."

~~~ _Tuesday_ ~~~

Keilee wakes the next morning with a splitting headache. Her brain pushes against her skull, eyes pulsing as light streams in through the windows. Chills rush up and down her spine, chased by searing heat, her stomach rolling as she stumbles her way towards the lavatory. She's hunched next to the toilet, cheek pressed to the cold porcelain, fingers fisted into her hair when he pushes his way into the space.

"I thought I said – Keilee?" The hand pushing against her back makes her jerk, forehead smashing into the toilet tank, sending another jolt of nauseating pain coursing through her. "Shit. Sorry."

Pushing the heels of her hands into her eyes, Keilee drags in slow, rattling breaths, "Please go."

"Pym!"

She knows what's happening. Even through the pounding pain and half there thoughts that don't quite seem to follow each other, this has happened before. It's always the same and she hardly wants Draco Malfoy around to bear witness to her weakest moment. "Go away."

"Yous be calling, master," the house elf pops into the lavatory, her wheezing voice like sandpaper against Keilee's already reeling head. "What's wrong with Missus Holloway sirs?"

"I don't know," Draco grits out, his hand once against landing on her back. "Can you bring up some tea and Digestives? And the sick bucket."

There is a gentle pop and Pym is gone, leaving Keilee alone with Draco. He's crouched down next to her, light grey eyes swimming in her vision. It might just be the throbbing in her head, but it looks like he's genuinely concerned about her, a worried v creased between furrowed eyebrows, his thin lips pulled down into a frown. Shivers wrack her body and she fights against the urge to pull away from the fingers dusting up and down her spine. The edges of the room being to fade in and out, Draco's form swaying before her. Sucking in a sharp breath, Keilee slams her eyes shut, shoving her mouth over the open toilet bowl.

Behind the closed eyes, images swirl into life, just shadows at first but quickly gaining solidity. Children with dirt-streaked faces. Bloody wounds. Fingers groping out, reaching for things and people that are no longer there. The acidic smell of war and death takes over, screams and curses and cruel laughter filling her ears. Pale skin against cobbled floors, unrising chests covered in thick blue wool. Cracked lips parting, a silent scream rising in a dry throat, eyes burning with no tears left to cry. Hands and arms and a warm chest with a beating heart offering no comfort, keeping her away.

"No!"

The cry echoes through the tiled space, coming back to hit her. Strong arms encircle her, holding her own to her side. She's rocked gently back and forth, words coming through water. She fights back, struggling in the grip, trying desperately to break free. Standing still gets you killed. Keep moving, keep fighting. Her wand, she's lost her wand. Continuing to struggle, she hears a satisfying grunt of pain, the arms encasing her relaxing a little. A sharp pain prickles across the side of her face.

The scene fades away. Staring back at her is Draco Malfoy, a rather hurt expression plastered across his face, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, "Dammit woman!"

Keilee rubs at her eyes, trying to gather where she is and how she got there. It comes back quickly. She is Keilee Ann, after her mother, Holloway. She is an Auror. She was sent to protect Draco Malfoy from Death Eaters. She's at his house in Suffolk. Keilee repeats this quietly to herself a few times, trying to stay grounded, to keep the images floating at the corner of her vision at bay. "I said you should leave."

Draco ignores this, continuing to massage his nose; "You didn't say you were going to hit me if I didn't."

"Well it's your own damn fault," Keilee snips back, momentarily forgetting that she's meant to be nice to him.

His eyes narrow, softening after only a second, "I'm going to forgive that, seems as you're having some kind of fit." Standing he once again curls his arms around Keilee, beginning to lift her from the cold tile floor.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Putting you back in bed. You can't very well sit on the water closet floor all day."

Keilee tries to throw off his grip, but still weak and disoriented and feeling another wave of nausea coming on, her attempts are to no avail, "I can walk."

"And under normal circumstances, I'd be inclined to let you," Draco grunts back. "Hold onto my neck so I can stand without dropping you."

"I will do no such thing."

"Don't try my patience."

"Don't try mine," she shoots back.

A cold hand presses into hers, ripping her arm away from her side, and curling her fingers around the back of his neck. Using the wall to brace himself, Draco lifts them off the floor. With minimal effort, despite Keilee trying to be dead weight in his arms, Draco strides across the room, depositing her against the bedsheets.

"George said you're sick, is this what he meant?"

Keilee stares defiantly up at Draco, "George shou– "

But the fight to keep herself conscious, to push back against Draco's help has drained her defenses. Once again the room sways, the soft sheets and dark curtains morphing into hard stone. Fingers grip at blood crusted hair, face pressed to just off warm skin. The tears now flow easily as she pleads with the man lying on the ground. He remains motionless, eyes staring blankly past her. People call her name, trying to pry her away, but she barely hears. Electricity buzzes through the room, staying anyone who gets too close, preventing touches meant to be comforting.

"No! Fred! No! Please!" Her eyes land on a mess of brown hair, the owner's arms curled around another with red hair, silent tears spilling down sunken in cheeks. "Do something!"

The words turn into choked sobs, into unintelligible screams and pleas to anyone or anything that can bring him back to her. And then she's floating. Floating through concerned glances and groping hands and flying beams of light. She barely notices as they whip past her, locked in grief, in a death grip of wanting to be with him again, of needing the empty space in her chest to cease its endless stuttering. And it comes, in a cloud of heavy black smoke and cold stone and taunting laughter. And then he's there, standing in front of her, offering some excuse, pulling her away. And he's still here, calling her name as she fights invisible enemies, thrashing and kicking and trying desperately to get to them, to let them swallow her whole because then and only then can she have him back.

"Keilee? Keilee? Can you hear me? Keilee!" Something pins her arms down, preventing her from fighting, from moving at all. As her eyes fly open she's met with grey and white. "Keilee!"

With a gasp, the images fall away, replaced by the soft monochrome colors of her room. She blinks up at Draco, warmth radiating through her. The sheets beneath her back are wet, soaked through with sweat and tears. Her eyes burn, throat raw.

"Here," she's hoisted up, and let back down against an array of pillows. "Pym brought you some tea. Would you like to try and drink some?"

Blinking, she nods, not yet trusting her voice and still too disoriented to move about much. A cup is pushed into her hand, Keilee's fingers automatically curling around it. Another hand gently holds hers, helping her bring the teacup up to her lips. After a few sips, her heart calms, beating steadily, the sharp gasps for breath subside and her soul reenters her body.

"I know what it's like," Draco perches on the edge of the bed, studying her.

"No, you don't."

He frowns, tugging his fingers through his hair, causing a few strands of the perfectly kept blonde to stand at odd angles. Keilee has to bite back a laugh. She's never seen Draco look so disheveled before; hair standing on end, nose slightly red, shirt crumbled, the top button undone. "Maybe not the same, but I do."

Draco turns to Pym, lowering his voice so Keilee can't hear. The house elf nods before popping away. A few seconds later she returns; a sleek black piano appearing just outside the bedroom doors, "I'm sure your head hurts so I won't try reading just yet, but I've always found the piano comforting."

Keilee sets the teacup aside, sliding off the bed as Pym shows her a new set of sheets. Using the furniture and walls to keep herself steady, Keilee wanders into the sitting room, collapsing onto one of the sofas. A blanket is draped over her shoulders, a pillow pushed in behind her back. "You don't need to do this."

"Civility goes both ways," Draco returns, sitting down at the piano bench, his shoulders rounded as long fingers dust over the keys. "If you'd like me to stop say so."

The words stay frozen on her lips as Draco picks up a rhythm, playing out a tune she heard so often as a child. Her mum insisted she learned piano, apparently, it's an important part of growing up, some kind of sign of status in the wizarding world though Keilee has always associated piano with Muggles. Despite this, nearly every pureblood witch or wizard she came into contact with knew how to play the instrument. Watching Draco play is intoxicating, temporarily hypnotizing her. The way his body moves with the music, fingers just pressing into the keys. After a few songs, her eyes begin to get heavy, lids tugging down with the weight of the music. Leaning back, she stops fighting, falling into an uneasy but somehow peaceful sleep.

~~~ _Wednesday_ ~~~

She awakes in her own bed with no knowledge of how she got there. Tugging the duvet off the bed, she wraps it around her shoulders, wandering into the sitting room. A heap of blankets lies out on one of the sofas. Quietly, Keilee tiptoes towards it, watching as the lump rises and falls as if given breath. Slinking around the couch, Keilee squats down, poking at the breathing blankets. The thing lets out an unhappy grunt.

"Ah!" she falls backward, arms pinwheeling, blankets flying. She lands on her butt with a soft oof.

The figure yawns, stretching its arms out as it laughs, "Good morning, Ms. Holloway."

"Mr. Malfoy! What the hell are you doing sleeping in the sitting room?"

Draco gives her a sleepy grin, cheeks dusted with pink embarrassment at getting caught, "I thought it best someone watch over you, in case you had another fit."

"Oh, well," Keilee stumbles over her words, slightly embarrassed herself. Nothing about the Draco sitting before her fits into the picture of him she's created. He's not supposed to care. He's not supposed to be sleeping in her sitting room to ensure that she's all right. And he's definitely not supposed to be looking at her like that. Suddenly aware that all she's wearing is an oversized sweater, Keilee sweeps the blanket back over herself, shielding her bare legs and exposed shoulder from him.

Seeming to pick up on the slightly sideways energy now filling the room at a rapid pace, Draco stands, giving a slight bow, "I'll have Pym start on breakfast."

"You slapped me yesterday."

Draco gives a solemn nod, "Yes."

"Don't do it again, no matter the circumstances."

"If that's what you want."

It seems Draco has some kind of agenda for the week as after breakfast he herds Keilee towards the room where all this started. Pulling open the doors, he ushers her inside the workspace. "While I'm certain you meant your potions comment as a jibe, I'm inclined to explain what everything is, to show you everything I've got stocked, and to insist you let me start brewing you a Sleeping Draught as I'm sure it'll take Ms. Granger some time to send you more."

"I'm fine, thank you."

Draco rolls his eyes, "You scream in your sleep. I can hear it across the house."

Keilee's face flushes hot with embarrassment. She was hoping he hadn't been able to hear. She's been sleeping with her face buried in pillows since she arrived. Apparently, they've not been doing a good enough job muffling the sounds. Sleep is hard to come by and often riddled with vivid nightmares. Each night Keilee hopes she'll be free, finally done with the endless expanse of longing and sadness. Each night is another disappointment. It's been two years. Nearly everyone is healed, at least enough to go about their lives in a somewhat normal fashion. This bug of health seems to have passed her over, forcing her to be a living reminder of the tragedy thousands faced.

"Fine, but I want to see it all. Every cabinet opened, every bottle looked at."

His gaze sweeps over the room, the ghosts of a grin sliding over his lips, "We'd better get started then."


	6. Night Out

~~~ _Thursday_ ~~~

Draco can feel her watching him as if she's trying to come to some kind of a decision. Not used to eyes following his every movement, he becomes increasingly conscious of how he walks, his body language, and the things that come out of his mouth. In return, he watches Keilee; watches her put weight back on, watches her grow steadier in her movements and convictions, watches the way her eyebrows draw together as she weighs each sentence on the tip of her tongue before letting it slide past her lips. While she's freer in her movements, each sentence is calculated. He can see the effort she's putting behind being nice to him. In a way, it's oddly satisfying to see her struggling. In another it's painful, he never intended for her to change who she is for him, only to see that side she shared with George.

While he had all sorts of activities planned to force her to be around him, today he leaves her to her own devices, curious if she'll slink away into the shadows or play along. He finds her in the front sitting room, lying across one of the cotton sofas, a book propped up on a pillow in front of her. He sits down, laying a blanket across his lap, adjusting it so it covers her bare feet. He's always hated feet on the furniture, but says nothing, knowing it'll only cause the crease between Keilee's eyebrows to appear. He doesn't want her to have to weigh her words today.

"What're you reading?"

Keilee eyes Draco over the top of her book, "It's called The Hobbit. It was one of Fred's favorites."

"I've never heard of it."

"It's a muggle book."

Settling further into the cushion, Draco balances one ankle against his knee, "Read it to me."

"You can't just demand I do something," Keilee answers with a slight huff. "Besides, I'm halfway through and I don't want you interrupting with questions."

Draco reaches over, snatching the book away and flipping to the first page. With a satisfied grin in response to her scowl, he hands it back, "There, now you're at the beginning."

Keilee maintains her annoyed expression for a few moments before letting out a defeated sigh and beginning to read aloud, "Chapter one, an expected party. In a hole in the ground, there lives a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and oozy smell..."

As a child, Draco always found books a bit drab. Then again, his family never really owned books that were suitable for children. Most were large volumes reiterating family lineage and the history of certain magical beings. For him, the words all kind of swam together, forming large black blobs on yellowing pages. Perhaps, had his mother and father ever thought to read to him or at least procured some books that were age-appropriate, he would've enjoyed the act. He's certainly enjoying listening to Keilee read.

Her voice flows with the sentences, making the dramatic bits even more so with the rise of her voice, letting parts, where the company is in precarious situations, come out in soft whispers. She takes on different voices for each of the dwarves, giving a wizard called Gandalf, who Draco is certain never existed, a deep gruff voice, while the Hobbit, whatever the hell that is, has a gentle, slightly northern drawl. For a few hours, Draco gets lost in this made-up land of Middle Earth and the Shire, able to picture the rolling hills and vast expanse of trees and mountains.

As Keilee announces another chapter title, Draco once again snatches the book away. This time he dog-ears the page before setting it aside, "Tell me more about Fred."

He's been curious about this since Keilee started hanging around the Weasley's. While it was obvious to everyone that Ginny was Keilee's favorite, Fred came in at a close second. It happened seemingly overnight, one day they were just inseparable. Not only does Draco not understand what drew the girl to Fred, he simply doesn't understand why anyone would take to a family like that.

Keilee hesitates for a second, studying his face as if trying to find some ulterior motive. Seeming to find none, she shrugs, "What would you like to know?"

"Were you going to get married?"

She chuckles, "We were a bit young for that. We were meant to live together though after I graduated. The flat I have in London, that's...well, he bought it. I was going to move in once school was over. I spent that summer there, before seventh year. It was just the two of us. I helped out at the joke shop."

"Is it weird living there without him?"

"It's incredibly lonely," Keilee frowns, staring down at her lap. "I've thought about selling it, but it's the last bit I have of him. Every time I go to do it, I remember some memory; the two of us having breakfast at the table or watching film reel in bed or dancing in the living room, and I just can't."

Draco nods, not fully understanding but sympathizing. No one he knows besides Crabbe has died and he never really liked the guy much anyway. He can't imagine what it must be like to be that close to someone and then have them ripped away. Sure, he's lost his friends, but they aren't dead. He could reach out if he wanted if he thought they'd bother to respond. "That was his sweater you were wearing yesterday?"

"Yes. I've got most of them. I think all the siblings have one and his mum, but they let me have the rest. Molly offered to keep making them for me, but I could see the offer alone hurt so I said no. I don't think I'd want them, knowing he wouldn't ever put them on. Fred loved those stupid sweaters."

He swirls a question around in his mouth, trying to get the words to fit together in a way that won't be offensive or come out as accusatory. George's explanation about Keilee being a cat has stayed with him. Right now she's settled, content to sit and talk. One misstep though and she'll likely go bolting. He clears his throat, letting each word come out as if it were its own, independent sentence. "Did you think the Sorting Hat made a mistake?"

"Putting me Slytherin?" Keilee smiles, shaking her head, "No. If you break down the desirable traits I pretty much fit them all. But I'm not pureblood and for many, that meant not a viable option for a friend. So, I found Ginny who accepted the fact that I was hard-headed and thought too much and couldn't ever let things go, and then I met her brother. Fred should've been in Slytherin, George too, probably Percy as well. The Weasleys never looked at me differently because of what house I was in or the situation with my parents. It was a family and I was just another part of it, hair and all."

"The hair is from your father, right? He's Scottish? Sometimes when you get angry the accent comes out."

Keilee's lips fall apart, eyebrows coming together. Draco grins at the shocked expression. He was very good at pretending not to listen, at lurking in the background and gathering little bits of information from conversations he wasn't invited into. While most students at Hogwarts, at least Slytherin students, tripped over themselves to be friendly to those with high powered last names, Keilee never seemed to care. For Draco, this meant instant fascination. He needed to know why.

"About the only things he gave to me," Keilee finally responds with a look as if she's just bitten into something extremely bitter. "I spent my early years in the Highlands. Mum was studying under some healer there and dad was running his business. We moved to London when I was six after mum got a job at Saint Mungos. Dad split after he found out mum was a witch, called her all sorts of nasty names, denounced me as his daughter. Not a big loss really. Mum had a good job, money from her own family. Mum liked living in the muggle world. Even after dad left, we stayed in muggle London. I grew up with non-magical friends, went to a muggle primary school until I got my Hogwarts letter. Mum always tried to instill that muggles and magical folk weren't that different."

"But we are."

She gives him a stern look, reminding him very much of Professor McGonagall, "That's not an argument you want to start."

"I'm not saying it's bad, but there are fundamental differences, one being we can do magic."

"I guess you'll find out for yourself next week."

Draco gives a curt nod, "Is that why you agreed to this, to get me on the train?"

"I couldn't have very well proposed it otherwise."

"You could have just asked."

"Don't do that," Keilee jerks her feet away from their place by his thigh, the absence of their warmth instantly felt. "Don't pretend like I could've just asked and you would've agreed. Don't pretend like I can just say please and you'll do as I want."

As she goes to walk away, Draco captures her wrist, gently tugging, "You've never asked."

Setting him with a steely gaze, she yanks her arm away, "Please. Don't pretend."

"If that's what you want."

~~~ _Friday_ ~~~

Keilee comes to him around midafternoon. It's a bit later than he was expecting, but he smiles to himself as she pushes her way into the library, wearing a satisfying look of confusion. George said to let her come to him and to him she has arrived, carrying a tea tray laden with sandwiches and teacakes.

"Pym thought you might be hungry. She said you've been in here all morning."

"I'm trying to figure out how to tell my family about my rather sudden nuptials."

"Oh," Keilee sets the tray on the corner of his desk, sinking into one of the tuft leather chairs off to the side. "Come up with anything good?"

Draco gestures to the waste bin, now nearly full with crumpled pieces of parchment, "No. It all sounds ridiculous. It _is_ ridiculous. Mother will be heartbroken that I didn't tell her I had a girlfriend and father will -- well, father will disapprove."

"He can't live in the past forever."

He lets out a snort, "Don't tell him that."

"No, I'm sure I'd get a swift cane to the gut."

Draco shoots her a warning look, "Why are you here?"

"You told me I wasn't allowed to hide. I don't much like double standards so I figured I let you hide long enough."

"Not hiding," Draco grumbles, pushing what must be the hundredth sheet of parchment away from him.

"Eat something, you're grumpy. We fight when you're grumpy."

Draco snatches up a sandwich, ripping a chunk off the end, "We fight regardless."

Keilee falls into a fit of laughter, her face going as red as her hair, eyes sparkling with tears. The sudden flip leaves Draco confused, tracking through their previous conversation, trying to figure out what was said that set her off. The laughter is intoxicating though, the first time he's really seen her let herself go. The sound is like waking up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee or getting an approving nod from his father. Draco vows to do anything in his power to get her to laugh like that again if only to feel the euphoric rush it sends over him.

Once she's finally regained herself, wiping at her eyes and taking in mouthfuls of air, she smiles at him; a real genuine smile with her lips pulled back to show her teeth, "Like an old married coupled. Ridiculous is right. Do you dance, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Yes. Why are you asking?" What a strange woman.

She gives a resolute nod as if they've just come to some kind of business agreement, "It's settled then. I'm taking you out tonight. I think a change of scenery will be good for both of us. I know a spot, in London."

"London? If you wanted to get to London we should've left hours ago."

"If we wanted to take muggle transportation."

"After the horrid affair with the Floo Network they've shut off my access and I'm not allowed to disparate."

Keilee gives him a knowing smile, "You aren't allowed to disparate alone. I, on the other hand, am more than capable of getting us both to London. We'll leave at eleven."

"At night?" Draco questions, his mouth slightly open. A most undignified expression, but he's quite sure Keilee cares very little about dignity.

"Of course, you don't very well go clubbing in the daytime."

At precisely ten fifty-eight, Keilee appears at the top of the stairs. For a second, Draco's heart stops, starting up again in painful hammers. The person standing in front of him is not the same woman. She's got her hair curled; loose ringlets framing her face, something sparkly on her eyelids catching the light. Rich black velvet hangs against the curves of her body, stopping just at the top of her thigh. Heels click against the wood as she makes her descent. Whatever she's got on her eyelids rings the bottom of her eyes too, making them look smoky, dark, and dangerous.

"Merlin, woman."

"Don't gawk, Mr. Malfoy, it's unbecoming," she chides, giving him a wink.

Draco stares at her outstretched hand, not sure if he should even touch what is standing before him. And he thought the trousers were bad. After a few seconds of standing with her hand suspended in midair, Keilee lets out a huff, grabbing his arm and bending it at the elbow, sliding her fingers into the crook.

"Uh – " Draco frowns, casting his gaze to the ground. "You look nice."

"Is that a question or a statement?"

As she gives him another playful wink, Draco's heart drops into his stomach. This is a terrible idea. Showing his face in London will be bad enough, but having to look after Keilee dressed the way she is will be nearly impossible. The kinds that frequent the type of establishment she's suggested they're going to aren't likely to give up without a fight and he's unable to use magic to defend himself or her honor.

"Exactly where are we going?"

Keilee shrugs, "Hold on tight, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco's vision comes back into focus on a dingy alleyway somewhere in London. Neon lights flash from inside the opened back door, the stench of stale beer and piss filling his senses. "What the hell is this?"

"Welcome to muggle London."

Despite desperately wishing he could disappear back to the quiet sanctuary of his home by the ocean, Draco allows Keilee to herd him towards the door. He should be pleased she wanted to come out. This is what he wanted after all, for her to be her own authentic self. If these are the kinds of places she likes to spend her time he can at least give it a shot. Maybe he'll find it entertaining.

"Ginny!" Keilee squeals once they've gotten past the rather intimidating man at the door, nearly leaping into the other woman's arms. Once they've let go of each other, Keilee takes in the rest of the group, playfully nudging Harry, "I see you've brought along your spare tire."

Ginny glances over Keilee's shoulder, her eyes briefly meeting Draco's. He's never felt more naked under a stare in his whole life, "I see you've brought yours. The other parent is around somewhere."

"Ron managed to pry her away from her desk for once?"

The man himself appears as if alerted to the sound of his name. He hands a drink to Harry, "Took everything I had, mate. I'm cleaning the cat box for the next year."

Draco, lingering on the edge of the group and feeling increasingly uncomfortable, begins to fidget, twisting his cuff link around in slow circles. This was a bad idea. He should've tried to talk Keilee out of this. Even if they don't know who he is or what he's been accused of, all the eyes feel like daggers. He knows he doesn't fit in amongst the bare chests and silk shirts.

Just as he's about to bolt, Keilee leans against his arm, her eyes glittering up at him, "Go get us drinks."

She shoves a wad of unfamiliar bills into his hand produced from Merlin knows where, as there are certainly no pockets in the dress she's wearing. He flips through it, uncertain of how to sort out what's what.

Keilee laughs lightly, "Just hand him the whole lot. Let him keep it all."

Draco opens his mouth to protest but Keilee has already pushed away from him, chatting away with Ron and Ginny. Someone grabs him by the shoulders, leaning in close to his ear, "She likes whiskey and vodka."

Startled, Draco reaches for his wand, realizing a second before pulling it out that it won't do him much good and would likely draw unwanted attention in a place packed with muggles. A hand stays his, the familiar face of George Weasley filling his vision. "Together? That sounds awful."

"Not together, you dolt," George rolls his eyes. "Whiskey plain. Vodka with club soda or cranberry juice."

"Did she plan this?"

"Ginny telephoned this morning."

"Git."

"Same to you mate."

Draco rolls his eyes, "Not you, her."

"Oh, well, yeah, but you've come to expect that, haven't you?" George leads Draco through the crowd, holding up a fold of money to get the attention of the man behind the bar.

"She's been surprisingly pleasant."

"She needs you on that train."

"She didn't need to do this to get me there."

"You're right – " George turns his attention to the man now standing in front of him. "Two pints, a whiskey neat, and – " he glances back at Draco.

"Uh," his eyes sweep over the menu, the words looking like a foreign language in the flashing lights. "Whiskey is fine."

George chuckles, "And a whiskey for the gentleman who clearly doesn't get out much."

The tender laughs along with George before going about his business.

"Anyway, as I was saying, she didn't need to do this but be glad she did. The other option was by force and I reckon you would've liked that a whole lot less."

"Does she usually dress this way?" Draco nudges his head in Keilee's general direction.

George hands Draco two glasses, collecting the others, "When she's trying to show off."

"Why would she be trying to show off?" Draco questions, lifting the glasses over his head as he tries to weave through the crowd without spilling.

The twin shrugs, "I'm sure she's playing some game. Take it from someone who knows her, the sooner you find out the better or you're liable to end up the butt of some joke. Do whatever she says, play along, you'll get through the night fine."

"George says you like whiskey," Draco whispers to Keilee, handing one of the sweating glasses over to her.

Her fingers hover over his, eyes dragging over his face. Draco takes it back; he's _now_ never felt more naked underneath someone's stare. It's like she's looking into his soul, pulling out every black thought that races through his mind. Smirking, Keilee takes the whiskey, downing it in one swallow.

"George is a smart man." She sets the glass on the bar top. "Barkeep!" The man behind the bar follows Keilee's pointed finger to the empty glass. "Another!"

"On the tab then?" The barkeep questions with an amused smile.

"As always, Henry," Keilee's eyes sweep over the group, lingering for just a second on Draco. "Well, I was promised dancing not standing around." She grabs Ginny and George's hands, pulling them into the throng of gyrating people in the middle of the club.

Fingers catch the hem of Draco's sleeve, pulling him along after the group. Keilee dances around with Ginny, the two girls giggling as they spin each other around, bodies moving together. It's more jumping around than dancing; hair and limbs tossed in the air, bodies moving about haphazardly. Every once in a while George will dip in, picking Keilee up off the floor, holding her tightly against his chest as she throws her head back against his shoulder, laughing like mad.

As the song switches, Keilee spins towards Draco, her hands slipping into his. Everything else fades away, her hands burning in his, her eyes capturing him. How did he never see her like this in school? The lights dance off her skin, making it glow. She's got a perfect Cupid's bow upper lip, the bottom one slightly pouted out, cushioning it. She's got this hypnotizing, mischievous glint in her eyes that sparkles back at him.

"Well, don't just stand there, at least move your feet a little," Keilee laughs, shimmying a little in front of him.

Draco scrunches up his nose, shooting a look around at the other people moving around him. Most glance in his direction, dipping in to whisper things to their partners, "People are looking."

Keilee rolls her eyes, moving more dramatically, forcing his body along with her movements. As she invades his space further, he gets a whiff of whiskey and rose petals, "They aren't looking at you. They're _obviously_ looking at me."

" _Obviously,_ " he retorts, not amused with her jest.

She sticks her full bottom lip out further, fluttering her eyelashes at him, "I brought you here to dance. Dance with me."

"If you make me look like a fool – "

"I won't."

Despite the pulsing beat of the music, Keilee holds him as if they were going ballroom dancing. He gently rests his hand on her waist, allowing her to lead him in small circles, taking a step back when she wants to be twirled. He keeps his gaze on her, making her the only person he sees, the only person whose gaze matters. By laser focusing, he's able to forget the others around, able to allow her to dance around him, their motions slowly picking up speed, her body working against his the way it worked against Ginny's. Draco keeps his hands glued to her waist; careful to not touch her anywhere that may make her uncomfortable, or accidentally lift her already too short dress and expose something.

He's never been this close to anyone, felt the heat of their body rolling off of them, enveloping him. He's never had anyone lean their head against his shoulder, or ruffle his hair, or drag their nails down his neck. Draco falls into the sensation of closeness, losing time, letting himself drown in the feelings of overwhelming happiness and acceptance bubbling up from his stomach.

After what feels like half a dozen nights out on that floor, Keilee falls against Draco's chest, panting, "I need a drink. Do you want one?"

"Another whiskey."

"Sure thing," Keilee captures Ginny's hand, dragging her along through the crowd after her.

George runs his shoulder into Draco's, "You put a spell on her or something?"

"No. We've just been spending time together."

"Well," George shrugs, "Whatever you're doing keep it up. I've not seen her look this happy in years."

Draco wanders over to the bar, nodding to Ron, Harry, and Hermione who sit on stools to themselves, watching the going ons.

"And what's wrong with believing someone can change?" Keilee's voice floats over the noise, anger leaking into it.

Draco scans the crowd but can't find the redhead.

"Not even six months ago you hated his guts!" Ginny. There's venom in her words. "Now you're all over him! What the hell has gotten into you, Kei?"

Keilee storms past him, pushing people out of the way on her tear towards the back door. Ginny appears seconds later; eyebrows creased together, painted red lips tugged into a frown. Harry pushes off his own stool, going over to comfort the girl who looks near to tears. She shakes her head, talking with her hands, but Draco can't hear any of it. He slides through the crowd, intent on going after Keilee. This doesn't look like a great neighborhood; she shouldn't be out in an alley by herself.

A thin arm springs up in front of him, dark chocolate eyes giving him a silent warning, "Let her cool off."

"She shouldn't be out there alone," Draco protests, not quite able to bring himself to push past Granger's outstretched arm.

Hermione shakes her head, "She can handle herself. She's liable to bite your head off if you go out now."

"Take it from people who know," Ron nods in agreement.

Shrugging, Draco pushes himself into a corner, eyes fixed on his watch. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. Thirty. Still no sign of Keilee. Growing impatient, he manages to dip past Granger and Weasley without them spotting him, shoving his way into the alley.

"Get off of me!"

A flash of red, partially hidden behind a hulking figure, fragile-looking hands beating against unforgiving muscle. Draco freezes. He can't use the kind of magic he needs to save her and Keilee clearly doesn't have her wand on her. As the man dips in, trying to get his lips against any piece of exposed skin he can, Draco makes a slip second decision. "Oi!"

As the man glances up, Draco draws his arm back, socking the guy right in the nose. Hot sticky blood erupts between his fingers, Draco's hand going numb, the strange vibrations reverberating up his wrist, through his forearm, settling uncomfortably in his elbow. The man staggers backward, holding his face, blood running down over a stubbly chin and dripping to the rubbish-strewn ground.

"Leave her alone!" Draco collects Keilee to his side, allowing her to cower against him.

The man gives her one last fleeting look before taking off up the alley. Draco gently rubs his hand up and down Keilee's bare arm, shrugging out of his suit jacket. Draping it over her, he holds her to his chest, petting her head. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

He can feel her shaking her head against him, her words muffled by the material of his shirt. When she pulls away there is a crisp lipstick stain against the white fabric, "No. Thank you."

"You're okay now."

Keilee holds him at arm's length, taking his hand in hers. Draco lets out a hiss of pain as her fingers dust over his knuckles, the skin there beginning to take on a light blue tinge, "You've kept your thumb inside your fist, haven't you?"

"Isn't that how you're meant to do it?"

She laughs lightly, beginning to probe further at his throbbing knuckles. It hurts, but the pain isn't unbearable, fading a little as she rubs gentle circles over the bone, "No. Give me your other hand."

Draco offers it up, watching as she curls the tips of his fingers into his palm, "You start like this." She then tucks his thumb, placing it just below the bends of his first two fingers. "The thumb goes on the outside, tucked down. The way you did it, you're lucky you didn't dislocate or break your thumb." She lifts his fist, rolling the first two knuckles over the smooth skin of her cheek, the last two following. "You make impact with the first two knuckles first cause they're the strongest. Do your forearm and elbow hurt?"

He nods, "The feelings back in them now, but they went numb."

Keilee nods, "You squeezed your fist too hard. Not used to street scraps are you, Mr. Malfoy?"

"I've never had the need to punch another person."

"You should talk to Hermione about it, I've heard she's got a wicked right hook, but you'd know all about that wouldn't you?" Keilee winks up at him, gently laying her own knuckles over his cheek.

Draco grins in return, "Bit cheeky aren't you, for someone who nearly got assaulted. How do you know so much about punching people anyway?"

"People tend to stop hexing you in the hall once you start playing with fists. I could've handled him, by the way."

"I think you and I had very different vantage points." Adrenaline still coursing through him, making his mind fuzzy, Draco tips forward, pressing a chaste kiss to Keilee's forehead. "I'm glad you're alright, even if it is at the expense of my thumb."

Keilee grins, her fingers dusting over the spot his lips just touched, "Your thumb will be fine."

As Keilee's head reconnects with his shoulder, a blub flashes.


	7. Truths

Draco sleeps through Saturday, which suites Keilee just fine. Her time is up at five on Sunday night and the less time she has to spend around Draco between now and then the better. She sets the trap just before dinner, insuring _The Prophet_ is turned, cover up, just close enough to his chair to be spotted but so that its precise placement doesn’t draw suspicion. She’s already waiting for him, nose buried in some novel she pulled off the library shelf.

He settles himself in his own chair, nodding as Pym places the dishes on the table. It happens in the blink of an eye. As he goes to grab his goblet, his eyes flick left, the movement on the page catching his gaze. The color drains out of his face as his fingers ball around the paper, “What the fuck is this?”

“The paper?” Keilee offers back innocently, tilting her book down to look across at Draco.

He snarls, slapping the paper down in front of her, his finger jabbing against his own face. She has to admit, Rita Skeeter might be a shit reporter but she does have a flair for the dramatics. Dancing back up at her is Draco and herself. Keilee’s chin rests on his shoulder, Draco grinning down at her. Draco’s suit jacket is draped delicately over her shoulders, hanging just below the hem of her dress. The ring on her finger flashes in the camera light.

“Did you know about this? That there would be a _Prophet_ reporter at the club?”

Keilee flicks her gaze at the clock, thirty more seconds. In the silence, she watches the realization wash over Draco in stages. The vein in his temple throbbing, fire blazing in his eyes, a deep red creeping up over the edge of his shirt collar, flooding his face. The way his fingers curl into a fist, the knuckles going white. “Answer me!”

“At least now you won’t have to think up what to tell dearest mum and dad, _The Prophet_ did that for you. You’re welcome,” she rolls her eyes. “Did you honestly think I would go out and hang all over you, flirt with you, just because? Do you think people like Potter and Granger and Ronald really spend their weekends in places like that? Do you think if Ginny and I were really fighting, if I had gone out there by myself, that my friends would’ve just left me to my own devices?”

Keilee lets out a scoff, shaking her head at the pathetic, slack-jawed look now plastered over Draco’s face, “You did, didn’t you? You thought all that was some kind of change, that this week of being nice to you had some kind of positive effect? You’re pathetic. Are you really so damn full of yourself that you thought spending time with you would make me like you? News flash, it didn’t. I had to stand in the shower and scrub my skin raw to get the slime of you off.”

“Deals off! Figure out how to get the Time Turner without me! I’m done with your shit!” Draco thunders back.

“My week ended two minutes ago, exactly ten seconds before I said anything,” Keilee shoves her chair back, holding her hand out expectantly. “Wand.”

Draco sneers back at her, “No.”

“Don’t make me take it by force.”

“You made me look like a fool!” Draco thunders, flying around the table and grabbing Keilee roughly by the shoulder. “Did you and your stupid little friends have a good laugh at my expense? Stupid Draco, to think he might have a shot at having friends! That maybe, for one night, I could just be normal!”

He’s shaking her now, her teeth knocking together under the force. Keilee blinks back at him, silently daring him to take it too far, to push her to the ground, to smash her head against the table. At least if he did that all this nonsense would be over. She’d write Harry, tell him what happened, and some other unfortunate soul would be forced to play babysitter. Despite wanting this to happen, she knows it won’t. The second she shows pain or fear he’ll stop. She’s observed him long enough to know hurting another, even accidentally, kills Draco.

“You _are_ a fool!” Her tongue gets in the way of her teeth, a grimace flashing over her face.

And just like that, just like she expected, Draco retreats, drawing into himself as if he’s been stung, “How’d you do it? Did you know the reporter would show up? Were your friends in on it?”

“Yes. Pym told me you were in the office and probably would be all day. I rang Ginny. She got everyone else together. Harry and Hermione let it slip we’d all be going out on their way out of work. There are always _Prophet_ people outside the Ministry. I knew that if practically the whole Auror office was out together if the famous Golden Trio was out in public the reporters would show up. Just to be sure, Hermione contacted Skeeter. The woman owes her favors. George helped orchestrate your little rescue mission. That guy was a friend of his. He wouldn’t have hurt me if you hadn’t come. I didn’t think you’d actually punch him though. The hanging all over you, the dancing, letting you kiss my forehead, it was all for the cameras.

I’m not sorry about it; so don’t expect an apology. Your parents need to know before we get there. They need to have time to mull it over. I knew you weren’t going to write to them.” Keilee sighs, chewing at her lip. “I did have fun though if it’s any consolation.”

Draco lets out a long breath, tugging his fingers through his hair. Swallowing, he sets his wand on the table, “It isn’t.”

“I figured. I have a job to do. I need to get that Time Turner. I did what I had to do.”

He rolls his eyes, “You didn’t have to make a mockery out of me.”

“No one was mocking. George thought it was cruel, I think he tried to tip you off when you got drinks. Do you really want friends so badly that you’d jump at the first opportunity to feel like you had them? Are you really that gullible? Wasn’t there a single doubt in your head? Didn’t you wonder why all of a sudden I seemed so smitten with you?”

His eyes betray him, sparkling with tears. His lips jump, the corners twitching down only to be fixed into a thin line over and over, “I don’t know what I thought.”

“I was honest with you, be honest with me. Didn’t you say this doesn’t work if we aren’t honest?” Now’s the time to try out if he really meant it, if she can really just say please and get whatever she wants. It won’t work. A large part of her doesn’t want it to work, doesn’t want her suspicions to turn out true, but she has to know. “Please.”

Draco crumbles, “Was it all really out of hatred, every jibe, every stupid joke and prank? Was there really no playful undertone? Some hope that maybe in all the fighting we’d become friends? I felt it, but maybe you’re right, maybe I am gullible. Maybe I’m tired of feeling alone.”

Keilee gives him all she can, the shock of his honesty making her brain fuzzy. It can’t be true. He can’t make it this easy. Their hate is supposed to go both ways, “I never wanted to be your friend, Mr. Malfoy. You should pack. The train leaves tomorrow at ten.”

“Why’d you save me then? Why didn’t you just let me jump off? Why’d you sit with me on the floor for hours? Why’d you visit me in the Hospital Wing? Huh? If I mean that little to you, if you really hate me as much as you say, if you really never wanted a friendship, why’d you stop me?”

Deal the final blow, slide the knife into the hilt, put an end to this nonsense. Despite knowing what she should do, that day as the beach swims before her eyes, how free he was, how open. Keilee’s heart stutters, pausing the sharp lashing her tongue so desperately wants to give. Dropping her shoulders, Keilee lets out a long sigh, fingers dragging through her hair, “I didn’t know all the things I know now when I stopped you. I didn’t know you hexed Katie. I didn’t know you were a Death Eater. I didn’t know you almost killed Ron. I saw a sad little boy who was about to make a terrible mistake. I might hate you, but you’re still a person. I am cable of caring, of seeing someone who needs help and putting my feelings aside.”

“If you had known….” Draco trails off, his lips now trembling so savagely he’s unable to control them, the tears welling up in his eyes spilling over, cascading down shaking features. “Would you have….”

“I don’t know.”

“Honestly?”

Keilee shuts her eyes, unable to continue watching the crumbling of the man in front of her, “Honestly.”

“Ke – Ms. Holloway, there’s no chance then, for us to be friends?”

Stopping in the doorway, she spins back to him, “You want a friendship? Show me I can trust you; show me you’ve changed, _really_ changed. But right now, standing here, as we are today, as Mr. Malfoy and Ms. Holloway, no there’s no chance.”

“Will you let me try?”

“I’ve realized that if you want to do something, nothing I say will stop you. So by all means, try. I’m not making any promises it’ll work though. You can start by having your things packed by the time we need to leave tomorrow.”

~~~~~~

Draco’s things are sitting by the steps when Keilee comes downstairs the next morning. She can’t decide if this pleases her or kills her. She was hoping he’d put up more of a fight, hoping he didn’t actually want the friendship. All her life, Keilee was so certain that pride outweighed all else. This, the engraved cases and fancy suit bags, goes against everything she thought she knew about Draco Malfoy. It’s terrifying. Terrifying to think he actually meant what he said, terrifying to think that he’s going to try, terrifying to think that the months ahead will be nothing but a fight. Keilee never wanted a friendship and really Draco never tried, but what is she meant to do now with him trying to shove the idea down her throat at every turn?

The ride to the train station is uncomfortably quiet, the silence filling the car with hot, sticky air. Keilee’s whole body itches, her skin crawling under Draco’s glances. The idea of spending the next seven to eight hours stuck less than a foot away from him makes Keilee’s head spin. Sure, they’ve been together at the house and she was forced to spend time with him, but at least there she could get up and go to another room. On the train he’ll just be there, sitting across from her, likely making the same bored huffing noises he is now.

“Stop breathing like that,” Keilee snips, rolling down the car window to let the cool midmorning breeze roll through.

Draco slumps down further in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest, “I don’t feel well.”

“Hang your head out the window. The fresh air will help.”

“No,” Draco answers back, giving Keilee a reproachful look. “I’m not doing anything you suggest.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re likely to have me looking like an idiot just for a laugh.”

Keilee rolls her eyes, flipping through the train tickets and money for the third time. Everything should be here, but the last thing she needs is to have forgotten something. The sooner they get there, the sooner she can rid herself of the overlarge child she’s been tasked with watching over, “How long are you going to hold that grudge for?”

“Until you properly apologize.”

“So for the rest of your life?”

Draco leans over the armrest of his seat, eyes sweeping over Keilee’s face, “You really aren’t sorry about it?”

“No. I’ve already told you, I did what I had to do. Are you really going to hold a grudge for the rest of your life?”

“Probably not,” Draco grumbles back, pulling himself back over to his side of the car, head turned towards the window.

“I’m sorry,” Keilee holds back a laugh, rather enjoying the discomfort she can tell this conversation is causing Draco, “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“ _I said_ ,” he turns back to face her, nose scrunched up, eyes staring straight through her. “Probably not.”

Keilee gives Draco a smug nod, instructing the cab driver to pull over at the curb. After a bit of grumbling about who was going to tip the cabby and having to lug his bag across the parking lot, Keilee is able to load Draco into their train compartment with minimal threatening. As he kicks his feet out on the seat next to her, arms crossed over his chest, she catches a glimpse of mischief in his eyes. Perhaps this was a bad idea.


	8. Even

Draco studies Keilee. She won’t sit still, flipping through the money, crossing and uncrossing her legs, getting up, disappearing into the hallway, only to return and start the whole process over again. She won’t meet his gaze and the way she’s huffing at everything is driving him up the wall. Despite her display in the dining room yesterday, he knows she regrets what she did. Why else is she still fighting? Why else has she told him he could keep trying? As he watches her, he hatches a plan, not nearly as diabolical, hurting people for the sake of hurting them was never really his thing, but not messing with her even a little seems wrong.

“I’ve been thinking,” Draco finally announces, snatching the wad of bills away from Keilee and tucking them into his jacket pocket.

“Oh no,” she grumbles back, shoving herself further into the corner of the train bench.

Draco smirks back, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees, “We’re pretending we’re engaged, right? Which means we’ve dated. Which means we should know things about each other.”

“I don’t like porridge, I take my coffee black, I don’t snore when I sleep, and my favorite book is Around the World in 180 Days. I hardly think there’s anything else to know.”

Instead of arguing back, Draco lounges against the bench, “What’s your favorite color?”

“You’re about to cross a line you can’t uncross.”

Draco grins, biting back the soft huff of a laugh, “I’m okay with that.”

Keilee finally looks up, her eyes connecting with his for a second before flicking to the trees flying past the window, “I’ll play your little game on one condition.”

“And what exactly is that?”

“You answer all the same questions and honestly.”

Smiling at Keilee, Draco nods, “Always honesty.”

“Black.”

Draco bites back another laugh, digging his teeth deep into his bottom lip. He can’t tell if she’s committed to giving him the blandest and ridiculous answers possible or if she’s honestly the embodiment of every stereotype that followed her around at Hogwarts. Once again choosing to believe that she’s sticking to the honesty policy they’ve created, really believing that despite what happened at the club, Keilee does mean it when she asks for it, Draco puts his questions aside. “Mine is green.”

“Like Slytherin?”

“No. Like tree leaves with the sun shining through them. Warm green. Like summer. Did you have pets as a child?”

“Not when my dad was around. Once he left mum got an owl.”

Draco grimaces, shaking his head, trying to clear away the memories of his childhood. It’s no secret it wasn’t happy. The papers plastered all his family’s dirty laundry over the front page after the war. Reporters would pay top dollar to anyone with even a sliver of information. No one had any qualms forking it over. He wasn’t very popular amongst his peers and those who worked with his father were more than pleased to see the man brought down to a more human level.

“We had none,” Draco’s lip trembles into a snarl, his nose crinkling, already painting on his face for Keilee’s snide remark.

Instead, she sits quietly, blinking expectantly at him, “Is it my turn to ask something?”

“I suppose if you’d like.”

For a few seconds she just looks out the window, chewing at the nail of her thumb, foot drumming a rhythm against the carpet of the train compartment, “Was there any part of you that considered not walking across that courtyard? Any part of you that felt like you’d had enough?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Because the answer is no?” Keilee arches an eyebrow, the beginnings of a triumphant smirk gracing her lips.

Draco wishes that little twitch at the corner of her lips didn’t send his stomach rolling. Being on the train makes him queasy enough. He’s always hated having to ride backward, to feel like his body and the seat it’s sat on are going in opposite directions, being tugged two different ways with no end in sight. He lets the feeling settle for just a second before clearing his throat, pushing each knuckle into his palm to ease the tension building there.

“Because you wouldn’t understand.”

“Because you aren’t willing to explain.”

He fixes her with a hard stare, picking up the paper left by the last occupant of the compartment and making a point to shake it out as loudly as he can, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Left or right?”

“What?”

Keilee gives him that same expecting look, her eyes wide and innocent, “Left or right?”

“Left.”

They go through this rapid-fire this or that questioning as the trees fly into mountains, the train hissing to stops and then immediately jumping back into action. With each answer the two grow closer, elbows resting on knees, noses nearly brushing as they get in each other’s faces. Whatever Draco says Keilee says the opposite. Whatever Keilee answers, Draco argues against, insisting dark is better than light, the forest is better than the ocean, not because he feels a particular conviction towards any of those things but because he enjoys the way her cheek flush red and the way fire rises to her eyes and the way her accent spikes.

“You’re just arguing for argu – ”

“Shh,” Keilee lays a finger over Draco’s lips, her eyes shifting towards the compartment doors. “That man has passed this compartment four times in the last ten minutes.”

“Perhaps he’s lost?” Draco offers though the uneasy feeling settling over him tells him that’s not the case.

Keilee shakes her head, “I don’t think so.” She frowns, teeth sinking into her bottom lip before going into her trunk. From it, she produces Draco’s wand, holding it out to him, “Stay here. Don’t move. Stupefy anyone who comes through this door that isn’t me.”

“Where are you going?” Draco hisses at her, his fingers curling around the heavy fabric of Keilee’s jacket sleeve. “You can’t just leave me here alone.”

Surprisingly gentle eyes shine back at him, her fingers gently prying his off, “You’ll be fine, Mr. Malfoy. I won’t let anyone kill you. I’d hate for someone else to get that privilege.”

“Trying to reserve it for yourself?”

Once again the redheaded devil surprises Draco, giving him a smile, mischievous, but still a smile, “Now why would I want to do that? I can’t imagine you’d be much fun to argue with dead.”

“No,” Draco’s fingers linger against the smooth skin of Keilee’s wrist, his opened mouthed expression reflecting in her eyes, “Probably not.”

Keilee slips from the compartment, disappearing up the hall. As he waits for her to return, shoved in the back corner of the train car, wand pointed towards the door, trying to keep his breathing quiet and even, Draco grapples with the way he feels. Keilee terrifies him. She sees the parts of people they wish to keep hidden. She’s like him; observant, witty, willing to use insults to cut as well as in jest. In certain moments, like when she smiles at him or shares something or simply sits with him when they don’t shoot insults back and forth, his stomach lurches filling with odd fizzing. He started out simply wishing they could be civil, but now he wants her friendship, needs those quiet moments of solidarity. Keilee pushes him, calls him out on the things he refuses to deal with. Draco suddenly realizes that he’ll do anything to keep her here because the idea of her leaving causes similar feelings only not as pleasant.

“What happened?” Draco demands as Keilee slides back into the compartment.

She shrugs, “We had a friend on board.”

“What did you do?” He questions, freely handing his wand back over to the witch, almost glad to be rid of it. Not having it means the threat isn’t there anymore. "Are you okay? Hurt?"

“Careful, Mr. Malfoy, someone might get the idea you care," she answers, sliding Draco's wand back into her own things. "I simply helped him off at his stop.”

Keilee pulls Draco’s bags down off the rack, beginning to rifle through them. She prods at various items with the tip of her wand, whispering to herself. As she pulls out a small chest her wand begins to vibrate. Keilee tips open the box, running her wand over the items inside. She plucks a heavy silver ring from the box, one with a few little diamonds surrounding a larger emerald; a ring Draco’s mother gave him for his seventeenth birthday. And before he can even think to move, to stop her, Keilee throws open the window and tosses the ring out.

“What the hell did you do that for?”

She casts him a passive glance, seeming much too calm for a woman who likely just pushed another person from a moving train. Despite himself, Draco stares in awe at the warrior before him. She might be annoying and callous and someone who constantly casts herself as the victim but when she needs to be Keilee is a force of nature.

“Unless you’d like more of those people coming after you, it had to go. It had a tracking spell on it.”

Not knowing what else to say, Draco tosses his things back into his trunks, returning to his seat.

“You know,” Draco says once Keilee has retaken her seat, wand tucked safely away in the folds of her jacket. “This isn’t what I expected you to be doing, Kei.”

As she arches an eyebrow, Draco braces himself for her acidic response. That eyebrow cock would be the death of someone less prepared, less accustomed to her attacks. Instead of flinching away, Draco leans in, hooking a finger under his chin, staring her down as if she’s the most interesting person on the planet and he just can’t get enough. Despite her slight waver, the eyebrow bounces just once, Keilee launches into her jibe full force.

“No, perhaps I should be running through a castle corridor in all black, like a stain upon the world, refusing to be cleansed. Or maybe pumping out children for a vile husband who wouldn’t know the definition of love if it slapped him in the face. Or perhaps stuck in a cage of grief, so distraught over the lives lost I cannot live my own. Just what exactly would be an appropriate path for me, Mr. Malfoy?

Instead of engaging, Draco gives her a long look, slowly reclining back, letting himself settle into the seat. The calm before the storm, his chance to lull her into a false sense of security before flipping her whole world upside down like she did to him. Sure there won’t be pictures in _The Prophet_ but she’ll still feel the sting.

“You always seemed to gentle and tolerant, I thought perhaps a healer or a teacher.”

“I’m quite surprised you noticed me at all considering you typically only had eyes for that abominable creature you called your girlfriend. What was her name, Petunia, Patty – ”

“Pansy was never my girlfriend.” Despite trying to keep his tone even, uncaring, the words come out icy. The Parkinson girl was a frequent distraction, someone to keep one side of the bed warm but nothing more. She prevented him from branching out though, not that he had all that much time or the mind to do so. Draco hates being reminded of her. She’s one person from school he’s pleased no longer reaches out.

Unfazed by the bite in his tone, Keilee shrugs, “And yet you let her cling to you like a leech on a bare bottom.”

“Depravity draws depravity.”

She gives him a curt nod, seemingly pleased with his admission, “At least you know your station.”

Draco bites back a smile, tired of dangling the string, ready to play her at her own game. Keilee may be good at laying traps but Draco knows a thing or two. While he’s certain Keilee would never agree, all Slytherins are cut from the same cloth. Draco is pretty sure Keilee’s piece was fairly close to his when the scissors came out, “Tell me your story, Keilee.”

“Why?” Her eyes narrow tongue running along her canine tooth as she studies him.

Wary but not closed off…good.

“Well, I’ve got nothing to read and the scenery is rather drab.”

“Fine,” she snaps, taking in a sharp breath and letting it out slowly, “but only because I’ve got nothing better to do. I was six and a half when my father left; we had only been in London a few months. I was staring at a vase on the mantle, upset about one thing or another and it jumped off. Mum and dad both rushed in. I think mum had just come in from a night shift. She pulled out her wand and fixed it. It was only after my father started with the yelling that she realized what she’d done. Father was gone within the hour. I blamed myself but never said as much. I’m sure mum would’ve told me off for it. She’s great but a tad harsh; doesn’t like self-pity or wallowing.

I was alone a lot after that. Mum worked. The neighbors all whispered. No one wanted to watch me. I had a few friends from primary school but one strange thing happened, something I couldn’t explain, and they decided they wanted nothing to do with me.

I thought Hogwarts would be a new start but it wasn’t really. I remember the Slytherins cheering the loudest. As a first-year, I thought it was just house pride. I’m sure we all did. It took me a week to realize they cheered to cover the booing from the other houses. I let myself believe that because we were all outcasts we’d be like a little family. I guess no one wants dirty blood at their table.

I was eleven. I was away from home. And I was bitterly lonely. I think I cried myself to sleep for at least the first month. And then I met Ginny and quite frankly I’m not sure she wanted to be my friend either, not until I hexed a second year Slytherin picking on her. For the first time, I felt like I had a family away from mum. I spent summer at the Burrow, made friends with the rest of the bunch. The only one who ever looked at me even remotely funny was Percy and he’s a bit of a prat so it doesn’t really matter.

Even with the Weasleys on my side, I still didn’t fit in at Hogwarts. I’d sit with other Gryffindors at quidditch games and people would get up and clear out of the bleachers next to me. I had to borrow robes to be in DA. Fred always stood up for me, Ginny and George too. They’d fight anyone, like attack dogs.

And then we were thrust into war and, I guess I feel guilty about it now, but I didn’t even think about mum. I was always worried about Fred, about his family. There were nights I couldn’t sleep, terrified their shop would be broken into, that the Burrow would be attacked. I was sick nearly all through sixth and seventh year.

Then one night they were just there again. Fred was by my side. I could feel his hand in mine; feel that he was alive. And like an idiot, I looked away for just a second and he was gone. So most times I’m sad and often I’m lonely. I’ve lost the family I had. The Weasleys can’t look at me without seeing him. George gets it, that’s why we’re close. His family can’t look at him either.” She shrugs, dabs at her eyes, and then yawns. “And that’s the story. The relevant bits you don’t know yet, anyway.”

After a few seconds of silence, Draco taking the time to let everything Keilee said settle over him, he clears his throat. Honestly, he never expected her to say so much. He wonders how long she’s been holding in some of those feelings, some of the same harsh memories of mockery and loneliness he felt growing up. For just a second, he wrestles with himself, wondering if he can actually do this. He understands the pain, knows his words will likely crush her. He’s got to. Keilee needs to learn her place. If he lets her get away with her stunt she’ll think he’s willing to bend over backward, let her have her way. It can’t be like that.

“I’ll tell you mine,” Draco finally offers.

Keilee gives a slight nod, “Seems fair.”

“My life was sad. Because it was sad and I refuse to be a grown-up about it I’m cruel to those around me. I throw tantrums. I refuse to take responsibility for my own actions. I put people in boxes based on years-old information and when new information is presented I shove my head up my own arse and refuse to see it. I’m selfi – ” 

“You’re mocking.”

“Doesn’t feel so great does it?” Draco questions, with a smug smirk. “In fact, I’d go so far as to say it hurts. So maybe I am mocking, or maybe I’m telling the truth. Maybe we aren’t so different. Maybe it’s time you lose the attitude and accept that. We’re stuck together, Keilee. Stop acting like you don’t feel anything, that you aren’t terrified of life. It’s pathetic.” 

She doesn’t say anything, just stares at him with fire in her eyes, knuckles going white as they curl around her wand, nostrils flaring, the vein running across her temple throbbing under reddening skin. He continues to poke, now not just wanting the reaction, but craving it, needing it so badly it physically hurts him.

“Have you ever thought that maybe the reason you’re so damn miserable, the reason you’ve still got nightmares, is because you won’t let go? Because you’re terrified that if you start to heal you’ll have to face your own demons instead of carrying around everyone else’s, that if you got better you wouldn’t even know yourself anymore?”

“Shut up!” She’s out of her seat, coppery flames fanning out around her face, that familiar sizzle of electricity filling the compartment. “Shut up! Just shut up! You don’t know anything!”

Draco lets that electric buzz fill space, lets it raise the hairs on the back of his neck, lets it fill his mouth with copper, and burn his ears. He focuses on pushing it back. He lets it fade away, draining out of the compartment as Keilee’s face loses its color, as her body stops shaking with rage, as she settles back onto the seat. Giving her a nod, he crosses his arms over his chest, taking a second to admire the quiet radiance of a woman temporarily tamed, “Now we’re even.”

For the third time today, perhaps just to gain back some of the power she so desperately needs, Keilee surprises Draco, “Yes. Now we can start trying…Draco.”


	9. Belly of the Beast

The rest of the train ride is silent. Keilee keeps a watchful eye on the compartment door, mentally categorizing everyone that walks past; little old ladies with their cat baskets, businessmen with phones pressed to their ear, mothers with their screaming children, young women with their lovers. No one stands out. No one passes the doors more than once. This observation keeps her mind off of Draco's cutting words, keeps her mind from wandering to the coldness in his eyes. To think about it too much would only hurt more, hurt because at least some of what he's said has to be true. Draco might be a lot of things, but he doesn't mince words.

Despite the rather ordinary people passing in the hall, Keilee stays on edge as Draco gathers their luggage, the two heading towards the lot. Keilee relaxes as a familiar smile comes into view. Hermione lounges against the hood of Keilee’s car, the heel of her ballet flat tapping away at the asphalt. As she notices the two growing closer, she pushes off the hood, holding out a set of keys, a little golden bludger and club charm sparkling in the mid-afternoon sun.

“Thanks for dropping her off.”

Hermione drops the keys into Keilee’s palm, giving Draco a once over, “No problem. Good luck.”

After giving Keilee a quick hug and helping to load the luggage into the boot of the car, Hermione wanders off up the street likely going to find somewhere quiet and isolated to disparate home.

“What’s this?” Draco questions, staring at the vehicle sitting in the spot.

“It’s a Porsche, Draco.”

“Clearly not a company car,” Draco responds, eying the car down the bridge of his nose.

Keilee returns the condescending look with a smug smirk, “No.”

“Well, who’s is it?”

“Mine.”

“Is it expensive?” Draco demands.

“Yes.”

“How’d you afford it? Surely the Ministry doesn’t pay that well.” There it is again, that ridiculous condescending tone. Malfoy doesn’t even know what kind of car this is or how much Keilee makes.

She can’t share those memories with Draco though, doesn’t want to go through her payment. She can’t share that after the war ended a letter and a check showed up. She can’t say that she took that money and spent it all on the most frivolous thing she could think of. She can’t tell him that on nights when the world felt too heavy George and her would get in the car, blast music, and drive too fast just to feel something again. No, she can’t tell him any of that. Not because he wouldn’t understand, she’s studied him over the past six months she spent with him and is quite certain Draco would understand, more than most probably. Keilee can’t tell him because she can’t tell anyone. She can’t tell anyone how much she wanted to lose control of the wheel, careening into a tree. She can’t tell anyone that she’s isolated herself from a family that would willingly invite her in with open arms. No, she’d rather not talk about it.

“I don’t want to talk about it. Please get in the car, Draco. I won’t ask nicely again.”

“Why’d Granger drop it off? Can’t the others drive?” Draco questions as he slides into the passenger seat.

“I’ve taught George, but I don’t trust him to drive this alone. Hermione has been driving since sixteen.”

Draco fiddles with a few of the knobs, “Would you teach me?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you drive it often?”

“No, I just leave it sat in the carport,” Keilee shoots Draco a nasty look, slapping his hand away from the air conditioning gauge. “Of course I drive it often. You don’t purchase something like this and not drive it.”

Once Draco has buckled himself in, Keilee turns the key in the ignition, flipping the radio on and switching it over to a disc. Loud, 80s rock fills the space. Pulling out of the lot, Keilee sings along to the music, smiling out at the road ahead. Draco glowers at her, fiddling with the switch, turning it down.

“What the hell is that?”

“This is ZZ Top.”

“It’s awful.”

“It’s the best music out there. Not the band itself but the genre,” Keilee corrects before turning the dial back up, playfully singing in Draco’s direction, nearly shouting the lyrics at him.

He wants to try and be her friend. Keilee is going to show him exactly what that will entail. Hopefully, he’ll stick to his earlier assessment of her, that she’s too loud, too undignified, too much to fit into his perfect posh lifestyle.

Draco cringes away from her, shoving himself up against the door, often pointing at the road, “I don’t understand how you do it.”

“Do what?” Keilee questions, turning the music down so they don’t have to shout at each other.

“Just not care. You hate me and yet you scream these songs in my face and dance around like you’re in here with your best friend. I cut you down on the train and you're here acting like it never happened; like it didn't have any impact.”

“I don’t care. I was never taught to care. Think what you want. It makes no difference to me, not anymore anyway. We’ve laid it all out. Had our fits. This is who I am. I smoke and I drink and I sing off-key but at least you know what you’re signing up for. This is me trying, Draco.”

In the two-hour drive from the train station into the London countryside, a bit of sun pokes through the heavy cloud cover of Keilee’s hatred. She’s able to laugh and joke, shooting little jibes at Draco and playing back songs she caught him nodding his head to. She forgives each time he grabs for the wheel when she takes both hands away to clap to a beat, batting his away playfully. They chat and laugh about old times like friends who are catching up after a long time apart. They even share a cigarette, Keilee’s pack dwindling more quickly than she’d realized with both of them smoking now. Despite this, as they near the Malfoy home, the clouds re-gather, a stony silence falling between them.

“I’m not someone your family will be pleased you brought home,” Keilee announces as the car rolls to a stop.

Draco swallows hard, “Honestly? No.”

“Who would they have wanted you with?”

Draco swallows hard, his nostrils flaring out as he huffs, “Maria Yaxley.”

“Aren’t you two related?” Keilee crinkles her nose, trying her best to swallow down the bile rising in her throat.

“All pureblood families do it,” Draco defends quickly, though his eyes have gone dull as if the idea makes him slightly ill as well. “How else do you think the bloodline stays pure?”

“I know it’s done. It’s just – ” Keilee shakes her head, grimacing at the thought “ – disgusting. No wonder half of your lot is insane.”

As Keilee goes to swing the driver's side door open, Draco curls his fingers around her wrist, stalling her, “Don’t talk like that around them. Don’t argue or get defensive. They are how they are.”

“I know how to play politics, Mr. Malfoy,” Keilee swings the car door open, her feet hitting the gravel road. “Stay here, I’ve got to change.”

After digging through her trunk and fighting with the smooth material of the dress Keilee picked out and attempting to keep her heels from sinking into the little patches of mud along the road, she appears back at the car door.

“Ready?”

Draco jumps slightly, wide eyes sweeping over her. He swallows a few times, clearing his throat and shaking his head before searching around blindly for the door handle. Keilee smirks as he comes around the front of the car, his eyes still raking over her. Despite his fumbling about for words, Draco does offer his arm, allowing Keilee to tuck her hand in the crook of his elbow.

Together they face the ominous black gates, Keilee shuddering slightly as the metal begins to grind open. Beside her, Draco stands resolute; his chin held high, his shoulders confidently rolled back. They take in a collective breath, letting it out slowly, the sound hanging on the still air. Draco finds Keilee’s hand, giving it a quick squeeze. For a few days, they’ll be putting their differences at the back of the drawer. Right now they’re about to walk into the belly of the beast. Right now, they need to be a team. That gentle sparkle in Draco’s eyes says he’s going to do his best.

Taking in one last deep breath, Keilee nods, sealing their unspoken agreement, “Let’s do this.”

Fog rolls over the rocky path up to the house, like a force trying to push the two away. The trees are bare, their branches twisting in unfriendly claws. The mansion sulks ahead, windows dark, shutting the world out, the door sitting in the middle like a gaping mouth waiting to swallow unwelcomed visitors whole. A sense of dread washes over Keilee mixing in with pity like acrid cough syrup, making it hard to swallow, hard to keep putting one foot ahead of the other.

“Keilee,” Draco stops with his hand on the heavy silver door handle, fingers trembling slightly. She hums back, unable to slick her tongue enough to form any other sound. “I lied earlier, about my parents not being pleased with you. Mum will be thrilled. Father – ”

Draco’s lips pull into a harsh frown, his eyes dropping from Keilee’s. That pathetic feeling of pity bubbles up just enough for her to slide her hand over his, her thumb working against the top of his wrist, “It’s okay. Their opinions don’t matter to me very much anyway.”

The halls of the Malfoy home are crypts, breathing the sickly breath of the dead, of those now fallen from grace. They hold walking corpses whose eyes follow you, sending that unsettled feeling of complete loneliness in a crowded room rolling down your spine. Inside these walls hatred brews, the kind of hatred that keeps the front hall void of its inhabitants; the kind of hatred that sees Draco leading Keilee up the stairs, showing her towards his room.

Before Keilee can begin protesting, not at all willing to entertain the idea of them sharing a room, Draco fiddles with a tapestry on the wall, a door clicking open, “The servant’s hallways. Straight through here is a guest bedroom. Every night we’ll retire here together and you’ll stay in the other room.”

“The sooner you get the Turner the sooner we can leave,” Keilee responds, the fleeting thought of if she’s offering the words to comfort him or as a warning floating through her mind.

Draco gives her a nod, “I’ll have the elves retrieve our bags. Dinner is typically served at seven.”

“Will they be joining us?”

There’s a gentle flinch, one that Keilee understands she won’t be able to stop mulling over in her head for many nights to come, Draco’s face contorting for just a second before he fixes it, painting on poise and control, “It doesn’t matter. Seven. Wear the ring.”


	10. This Place

He should’ve been nicer, more cordial. He should’ve offered to help her unpack. She clearly doesn’t want to be here, clearly feels uncomfortable. It was her who brought up his parent’s approval, Keilee who saw those gates rising up out of the mist and knew she wasn’t welcomed here. He could’ve tried to change that, could’ve tried to show her that while his parents may be difficult, may not want her here, he does. Needs her here for some completely irrational, not yet fully formed, reason. 

It’s this place, the memories these walls house. This place that chokes out compassion, that chokes out wanting friendship and acceptance. It leaves only a murky desperation for power and even that seems to have left the halls in one long, rattling exhale. The idea of coming back plagued him. The idea of having to stare in the face of the demons that continue to haunt his dreams. Those grotesque fingers, curling into claws. His dead red eyes following him, trying to snake their way into his head. The severe look of disappointment thrown back at him in too familiar eyes. Draco’s temples pound. 

The faces flash through his vision. Some pleading, some stoic, refusing to show pain, others cry silently. Their cries rise up in the silence, ripping at him, their nails tearing holes in his arms. Spinning, the biting of bricks against his back; flashes of his life playing out like a projection presentation in class. His mouth goes dry, cotton clogging up his throat, breath getting tangled up in it. 

Draco tries to settle, tries to shake off the grip now tightening around his throat. The pacing doesn’t help. Sitting only makes him uneasy. Closing his eyes and drifting off seems impossible. How did he do this for eighteen years? How did he ever return here after everything? Drawing breath gets difficult. 

Rising, Draco throws open the window, climbing carefully out onto the little porch in between the gables. Surprisingly, his childhood telescope still sits on the little outcrop, the metal rusted, the lenses waterlogged. Tugging in lungful’s of the fresh afternoon air feels euphoric, his mind slowly quieting, not blank but manageable. He can breathe out here. The air has a chill but it feels good, pure, not like the acrid staleness of inside. This little porch was always an escape. Sitting up here, staring out at the surrounding trees or looking up at the stars always made him feel free, reassured him there was more than this house…more than the turmoil going on inside its walls. 

“Draco?” 

“On the roof.” 

A mane of fire pushes through the drapes, the rest of Keilee squeezing into the opposite corner. Her eyes sweep over the space, temple tilted against the iron balustrade, “It’s nice up here.” 

Draco can sense that same energy they shared in the car. There’s less, but still enough to make Keilee seek him out, still enough for them to have casual conversation. If he’s cautious - if he lets her drive their communications, that energy might just grow, “Yeah.” 

Keilee, still clad in that ridiculous dress she decided to wear up to the house, begins to shiver, curling further into herself. Draco shrugs out of his suit jacket, offering it over to her. She takes it, quickly sliding her arms in, wearing the thing backward. Draco hides a grin, Keilee looking almost childlike with the sleeves down over her hands. 

“It’s uncomfortably quiet here.” 

“Yeah.” 

Draco doesn’t miss the slight frown, though Keilee tries to hide it by pressing her cheek into her knees, “I can be quiet. If you’d like.” 

“No,” Draco has to shove his hands under his thighs to keep from reaching out and taking one of Keilee’s. Something’s changed; he can taste it in the air. “Tell me about summers with the Weasleys.” 

“It was always loud there, even at night. Molly usually had us out in the garden. Sometimes Hermione would come and the boys and Ginny would play Quidditch while we watched. One time Fred and George set off one of their experiments and the whole house was filled with a wicked stench so for like a week we all had to sleep out in a tent. There was this warmth there, not like temperature, but from like love.” 

“Not like here.” The words spill out before Draco can even think to stop them. 

Keilee lifts her head, their eyes catching for just a second, “Not like here. Does the telescope work?” 

“There’s water in the lenses.” 

“Oh.” 

“You’re still shivering.” 

She glances down at her bare feet, toes curling in, “Yeah.” 

“Come here,” Draco extends his arm, creating a spot next to him for Keilee to sit. 

“What?” Her eyes are wide, lips slightly pouted, eyebrows so pulled together that the skin between them puckers. For just a second, Draco thinks he sees fear. 

“Come here.” He repeats it smoothly, keeping his tone and his face as gentle as possible. "This or I send you inside." Not a warning, not a threat he'd follow through with, but it smooths Keilee's eyebrows, the flash of fear replaced with a familiar stubbornness. 

There’s a moment's hesitation, Keilee chewing at her lip, fingers twitching. And then she slides across the floor, gingerly tucking herself up under Draco’s extended arm, curling into his side. He can feel his heat seeping into her, Keilee’s breathing slowing as she relaxes just enough to not feel like a bag of bones leaning against him. For a long while, they just sit there, breathing together, letting the silence, comfortable for the first time since she arrived in that barn, envelope them. 

Draco finally settles, finally lets the memories tugging at him melt. This place and those still residing in it have no effect with her this close. Without either being explicitly aware, they’ve created a little bubble of safety, weak and with holes in a few places, but a bubble nonetheless. Maybe Keilee doesn’t feel it and maybe Draco is willing to make up anything to keep from falling into his past, but he’s pretty sure it’s there. 

“Can I share a memory?” 

Keilee, now absently playing with Draco’s fingers, twisting his rings around them, occasionally taking one off and inspecting the carvings in the metal, hums back. 

Draco wonders if she’s really here or if in her mind she’s back with Fred sitting in the garden of the Burrow. He hopes not. He hopes she’s here with him, aware that, not for the first time, she’s cuddled up against his side, that he’s the one keeping her warm. The first time they sat like this she was comforting him, his head tilted against her shoulder. He wonders if she remembers. 

“When I was really little, maybe four or five, we had a house elf; the one before Dobby. She was old and on her last leg, but her family had served the Blacks and she came with mother. She used to bring me up hot chocolate and sit on the little stool by my bed and tell these unbelievable stories. I was young so I ate up every word.” 

Keilee shifts beside Draco, “Your mum didn’t read to you?” 

“No, the first time I was read aloud to by someone other than a house elf was you. Both her and father were gone a lot when I was little. We had a nanny, but I was a bit of a brat to her. She bruised my knuckles quite a few times.” 

“Your parents let her?” 

Draco shrugs, Keilee’s head riding his shoulder, “I’m not sure they would’ve cared had they taken the time to notice.” 

“Would you like an apology?” 

“Not particularly.” 

Keilee again pulls away, this time leaning her elbows on her knees, tipping forward to look at Draco, “Would you like to learn to drive?” 

This time, Draco doesn’t sit on his hands. This time he gently collects Keilee’s, threading his fingers through hers, letting out a breath as she allows him, “Does it feel like flying?” 

“If you drive fast enough.” 

“Yes please.” It’s more of a beg than he’d like it to be, but it seems to get the point across. The point that he needs something – anything to send his mind somewhere else. Quidditch used to do that, but anymore it just seems troublesome…too many rules, not enough pure unadulterated freedom. 

Keilee nods, as if sealing the deal, producing a cigarette from behind her ear, using her wand to light it, “You know, I think this is the longest we’ve gone without arguing.” 

“A record.” 

“Indeed.” And then her temple reconnects with his shoulder and his vision blurs with grey smoke and for just a second he can forget where he’s sitting, forget why they’re here. For just a second, the world tips back onto its axis.


	11. Landing

Lucius is at dinner, a stone statue attempting to keep its head balanced on crumbling shoulders. Sitting prominently against chiseled marble is the mark of disgrace, those five symbols that will forever mark his downfall. He keeps his hardened gaze on the far wall, choosing instead to use his tongue as a weapon.

“Your mother would have joined us, but she’s been unable to leave bed since the news. I do hope you’re proud of yourself.”

Taking a seat across from Draco, Keilee rolls her shoulder back, making a showing of placing her hand on the table, ring clearly visible, “Perhaps I’ll bring her up something later.”

“You will do no such thing,” Lucius hisses back, his slight twitch eliciting a pleased smile from Keilee. “She hardly wants to associate herself with your sort.”

“No, I suppose she prefers the company of disgraced Death Eaters.”

Their gaze’s meet, fire and ice, a battle for power occurring as soup is floated into the spaces in front of them. The battle rages for a second, broken only by Draco banging his fist against the tabletop, dragging the attention of both parties.

“Keilee,” Draco gives her a stern look, jerking his head to silence any protest. “Just eat.”

Lucius, not content with sitting in silence, pushes his soup bowl away, now resting his chin on tented fingers, “What exactly is it that you do, Keilee?”

“I work in the Auror office, special assignments.”

No point in lying. While Lucius may not have the same connections he once did, Keilee is certain he still has ways of getting information when he needs to. It’s better to be upfront than getting caught in a lie. Keilee has a feeling that while a shadow of the man he once was, Mr. Malfoy is still perfectly capable of unraveling loose threads and sloppy stories.

“And are you on an assignment now?”

“No. Draco thought, since we are planning a wedding, it would only be appropriate to introduce me to his family.”

Lucius slides his gaze to his son, glowering at him down the bridge of his nose. It’s impossible not to see the resemblance, the same learned prejudices, the same entitled attitude. “Maria would have been appropriate. This is a joke.”

“Please don’t disrespect my fiancé, father.” Draco grits out, also pushing his untouched bowl of soup away.

“Respect – ” Lucius pushes his chair out, slinking around the table to grip his son’s shoulders. He drops his head, knuckles going white from the force he’s applying “ – is earned.”

With that, he strides from the dining hall, the doors reverberating shut behind him. Keilee and Draco sit in silence for a few seconds, the tension building, words pressing at tightly clenched lips, unspoken feeling passing between half glances. The scrape of wood against wood shatters the moment, a moment that could have been healing but will now forever be left as another edge between Draco and Keilee.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Dr – ”

“You’ve done enough,” he halts, keeping his back to her. “All you have to do is keep your mouth shut. Why can’t you just learn to shut up? Why does everything have to be a fight!”

“Why don’t you fight?” Keilee shoots back, eyebrows creasing together, blinking stupidly at the wall of black suit. “Why do you let him walk all over you like that? You aren’t a little boy anymore. You don’t need his approval. You don’t need to shrink to make him feel better.”

Draco simply shakes his head before stalking from the room, leaving Keilee’s words echoing back at her.

~~~~~

Somehow the mansion seems less brooding at night, when the endless oppressiveness settles into its unconsciousness. There’s a subtle beauty in the moon peeking in through the windows, creating ponds in the marble flooring. The night brings silent hope. The wandering and bare feet gliding across the floor feels more welcomed…allowed.

It was the cold shoulder that kept Keilee up mixing in with that cringe, the flash of fear in impenetrable stone. Draco has never just ignored her, never acted as if she wasn’t in the room. There was always some kind of confrontation. The silence is eerie, settling into Keilee’s bones, making her unable to just be. The endless pacing through her silent chambers, even larger and more lavish than the ones back at the beach house, only put her further on edge. Deciding sitting with it longer wouldn’t help, Keilee went wandering, trying to find a suitable place to sit and smoke.

Maybe it’d be better not knowing he’s just in the next room, that she could start the fight if she really wanted. But why do it? Because it’s become a constant? Because it proves she’s still here, still capable of influencing others, tangible enough to take up space in someone else’s head? Because in some sick way, it sends her stomach to her toes, shivers of excitement rushing down her spine? Because at least if they’re yelling they’re talking, and if they're talking she's not so damn alone?

As the flame licks at the end of her cigarette, Keilee pushes these questions from her head; sleep deprivation, months of living in limbo, too much sitting around.

“If you’re going to smoke, I do insist we open a door.”

The lit cigarette tumbles from Keilee’s lips, little sparks jumping across the titled floor, “Oh, I - I was just trying to find someplace to – ” she pathetically holds up the package of cigarettes, her brain trying to click back on. “I’ll find somewhere else.”

“It’s all right, dear,” a vision in pearly white, Draco’s mother pats the crimson cushion next to her. A surprisingly friendly smile affixes itself to her thinning face, the glow of the night reflecting in her eyes. “I heard what you said to Draco tonight.”

“He – ” Keilee’s teeth sink into her tongue. She can’t answer as herself. She’s meant to be Draco’s wife to be, a bit hot-headed but doting nonetheless, accepting of the fact her husband will always be superior, at least in the eyes of his mother. “It was out of line. I plan on apologizing.”

“Don’t,” Narcissa bats away the idea with a smooth flick of her wrist. “He needs someone to remind him he’s his own person. Your strong will is probably good for him, though he’s stubborn like his father. I’m sure you’re no stranger to push back from him.”

An honest answer, “No.”

“He’s a good boy,” Narcissa sighs, the corners of her lips tugging down in a frown. “A brave boy – damaged like so many others.”

Keilee bites back a _yeah, because of you – because of people like you_ , instead opting to go for another cigarette. Narcissa is softer than Keilee imagined. She expected a woman with her nose in the air, a woman refusing to accept her societal downfall, a woman blind to what her family name amounted to. She did not expect a mother willing to admit her son’s faults…a wife raising her own private resistance.

“You didn’t come to dinner because you’re avoiding your husband, not because you couldn’t bare see your son.”

Narcissa gives Keilee a knowing look, a warning look, “Smart girls with big mouths die in this world, dear.”

 _Used to die_ , Keilee silently corrects…now they’re left to sit on the bits and pieces of their thrones and look upon a burning kingdom. No more sides. No more battles to wage, but still fighting, still hoping. What else is there to do?

~~~~~~

Draco continues the silent treatment throughout the week. A few days would have been irritating but reasonable; this is just childish. Childish behavior for a childish man, a man reverting to learned tendencies; shrink, shut up, become a shadow. If her loathing wasn’t at an all-time high, Keilee might feel sorry for the little boy trapped inside the man’s head.

Keilee’s mother was never abusive, physically or mentally, nor was she outright neglectful. She certainly wouldn’t win any mother of the year awards though, at least not from Keilee. The woman had a head-down mentality, unwilling to pick sides in anything. That often put the two women at odds; Keilee unable to curb her stubbornness, her mother certain getting involved was a sure-fire death sentence. Her mother’s favorite saying was that those who put their noses in others' business would eventually lose the ability to smell.

Growing up, Keilee was left to her own devices, all right with her. Her mother worked, Keilee went to school. During summers, Keilee spent the obligatory two weeks at home before falling into the more accepting and more opinionated Weasley family. That was the first place she ever felt at home. A good solid place to land.

Being in this place, this crypt with its shiny floors and perfectly polished banisters, with it’s shut doors and silent flinches, she does feel a certain bang of sorrow for the boy who had no place to land. This was it for him. No smiling faces, no rowdy wake-ups, no chairs squeezed around a breakfast table. Had she stayed, had she not found her landing place –

The questions get swept away as a squatty little elf pushes its way into the room. The creature gives a low bow, its nose sweeping the floor, before it rights itself, clearing its throat as if about to give some kingly speech, “Mr. Malfoy requests your presence.”

“If he wants me, he can come find me himself.”

Another body pushes into the room, dismissing the elf with a casual flick of the wrist, “Difficult. As usual.”

“We’re talking now?” Keilee throws herself over the thick black bedspread, inspecting her nail beds.

Draco remains by the door, hands folded behind his back, eyes affixed to the far wall as if nailed there, “I hate repeating myself, so listen closely. You are not permitted to speak to either of my parents in the way you spoke to my father. We will be having formal dinner tonight; mother and father will be there. You will speak _only_ when spoken to. You will be polite; yes sir, yes ma’am. Do we have an understanding?”

Keilee rolls over onto her stomach, “Should I leave my brain in the bedroom, or would you like to hold onto it for me?”

“Perhaps you should lock the attitude in the bureau.”

“Perhaps you should follow your own advice. Your mother seems to be fond of my attitude.”

Draco ignores this, now poised with his fingers curled around the doorknob, “Seven.”

“I have a question,” Keilee drags herself into a sitting position, gently bouncing on the mattress, “What was your plan with the silence? I mean, we could be here for months…you couldn’t possibly have thought to avoid interacting with me the whole time. So, naturally, I’m curious, had this dinner not cropped up, when would you have come back? Cause eventually, to continue your idiotic idea of us being friends; you would have had to come back.”

“Seven.”

The door clicks shut, giving Keilee all the answer she needs.


	12. Similar

If looks could kill, the whole damn family would be falling into their soup bowls. While Keilee remains quiet, following the instructions Draco gave her – thank Merlin – she greets everyone with a steely, rather wild look. Her chin stays glued to tented fingers, food passing under her, each plate completely untouched. Draco ignores her gaze, each accidental catch rising copper in his throat. His family feels it too, that unbridled power in just a single second of direct eye contact. It’s unsettling.

“I’m taking a trip into the village tomorrow, if there’s anything you need for your stay here, Keilee.” His mother the first to try and break up the uncomfortable electric pulse zooming its way around the room.

“Cigarettes. Dunhills, if they’ve got them,” Keilee answers, never looking from the hole Draco is certain she’s trying to bore in his skull. “Treasurers if not.”

Usually poised, his mother doesn’t let the shortness of Keilee’s response rattle her. Narcissa has dealt with worse demons than the redhead sitting across the table and lived to tell those tales without a scratch. She simply smiles, giving a gentle nod of the head in acknowledgment.

“There is no smoking on Manor grounds,” Lucius comments, eyes fixed on his plate.

Draco chances a glance at Keilee, careful to avoid her eyes, his foot poised back to hit her in the shin if she offers back a snarky comment.

It comes from his mother instead, the family’s power balance a constant game of tug-of-war, “The Manor is not a museum, Lucius. She can smoke in the garden, or out front, or in the observatory, or the greenhouse, though I do insist if you smoke in there to open a door.“

“Seems – ” that same sickening slide of wood against the smooth flooring. That same snarl; lips rippling up, nose following, eyes narrowing. It sends Draco’s stomach into his throat, worse than the copper. His body jolts involuntarily as his father sweeps past his chair. “ – as you have the affairs attended to, Narcissa, I am retiring for the evening.”

While there was never much affection between his parents, there was a time when they at least called each other dearest, wife, husband, even love occasionally. Those days are gone; another thing taken by war. The fallout from Narcissa’s decision came, though she had almost a year reprieve while Lucius served out his Azkaban sentence. No clear winner arose from the ashes of the fight on the home front. Perhaps that battle is still waging, in Draco’s mother reprimanding his father for not being a gracious host, in the flashes of anger still lingering in his father’s eyes.

“Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy.” Keilee murmurs, sucking at her bottom lip, her eyes finally dropping to the plate of food in front of her.

“I do insist you call me Narcissa.”

Friendly? Or an attempt to shrug off the heavy cloak of an ashamed family name? A family name his mother has been running from for years. A family name she nearly insisted he rip from himself, something he just isn’t quite able to do. It’s inside him, not just a cloak, but his bloodstream – etched into his skin, marred as it may be, it’s still there. His name. His legacy, in not faded enough black ink.

Keilee and Draco’s mother shoot the shit while Draco pushes his meal around his plate. Once bored of chasing peas around with a fork, he clears his throat, offering an arm to Keilee. She gives him an eye roll but stands nonetheless, allowing him to escort her out of the dining room.

“Can I have my brain back now?” She questions once his chamber doors are shut behind them.

“I wasn’t aware you gave it up.”

Keilee pulls a face, her eyes wide, hands held up by her ears, “Are you being serious right now? I didn’t say more than a dozen words while your tyrant of a father was there. Your mother engaged me in conversation; it would’ve been ruder to say nothing. Do you want them to think you’re marrying a dolt?” 

“I do wish you could see your face right now,” Draco’s teeth sink into his bottom lip, eyes crinkling up as he first smiles and then laughs. It feels good to laugh in this place, this place that offered him nothing but a sinking feeling of self-doubt and inevitable death. “Worth a thousand words.”

Her face falls, cheeks still lightly dusted red from the previous eruption, “Are you losing it?”

“You did splendid tonight, Ms. Holloway, award-winning performance.”

“It’s called an Academy Award,” Keilee shoots back, giving him a sideways glance, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if acting as some kind of armor, keeping her locked safely in her own world of self-doubt, of guilt and shame.

They’re more similar than she’ll ever admit, and for some reason, that kills a piece of Draco. That piece he’s carried since she came flying up those stairs with that Nott kid. That piece that grew with her standing there on the Astronomy Tower, hand held out to him, a heart-wrenchingly broken plea hanging from her quivering lips. They’ve been looking in a mirror, refusing to see the image staring back. Draco’s laughter dies out.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you this much, Kei. It was a joke, friends joke.”

“We – ” she shoots him another one of those coppery glares, her lips pouted out. Draco has to take up chewing at his nails to keep himself from laughing again. She looks like a cartoon, needing only to stomp her foot to complete the picture. “ – are not friends, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Don’t – ” Draco hopes desperately that she missed the slight flinch, the memories wracking through his body in hot lashes. “If I am never allowed to ask for another thing in life, I ask that you don’t call me that. Not here.”

Keilee lets out a huff, “They really fucked you up, didn’t they?”

He offers back a pathetic shrug, not trusting his mouth to form the proper words.

She gives him a once over, something softer replacing burning loathing, “Yeah. Me too.”

That piece takes new root.

~~~~~~~

He shouldn’t be standing outside of her door. It’s stupid, nonsensical; he’s completely off his rocker. But he just couldn’t stay in that bed, stair up at that ceiling. The mere thought sends his skin crawling. Tomorrow he’ll ask, tonight he’s standing in front of a polished oak door, standing in the same secret hallways he used to hide within, just listening. The protectiveness instinct most people are born with evaded Draco for a lot of his life. Now it’s eating away at him.

That girl in there weathered a storm that would kill most, and for a split second today, she dropped one of the supports holding up her walls. In a way, that was as much vulnerability Keilee has ever shown Draco. Not the kind she was forced to express through thrashing limbs, but real, true vulnerability that she freely handed over.

In those few seconds, Draco remembered the hope he’s held since the day she saved him. That hope that there was redemption; that someone might see that inside he’s just a terrified child, desperately hoping that this will be the thing that makes his family proud, that makes him a man. That the light inside someone else might pick up the flickering of his. That hope renewed in that barn, amongst the files and horseshit. There she was again as he contemplated the point in all this. Except now her light is dimmed, shadowed by the hardness now eating at her heart. Infuriating as Keilee was, she was never cold…not even really to him. That hope lifted its head again tonight as the door between his room and hers clicked shut.

And now he’s stood outside her room; ear pushed up against the door like some disgusting Peeping Tom. But that gentle sound of her breath, the idea that all walls are stripped back as she sleeps, leaving the ferocious beast belly up, is intoxicating.

George talked about finding something, leaving breadcrumbs. Perhaps, Draco’s thing, the way to get Keilee to be civil, to be his friend, as childish as that sounds coming from a grown man’s mouth, is vulnerability. The more he shows, the more she will. Easier said than done. Keilee has little to no interest in Draco spilling his soul to her. And, being honest with himself, Draco isn’t quite sure he wants to expose Keilee’s inner demons, those things that she herself needs to grapple with alone. Too much exposure, too much dredging up the past, would land them in their current position, year’s prior even. The walls just need to come down enough to allow for casual conversation, perhaps even with a few snide comments mixed in.

~~~~~~

He gives her all the time he can. All the pacing and mind racing, and hair pulling, and listening – _fucking listening_ – that he can. In the end, it was that soft, gentle breathing that allowed him to hang on for as long as he did, long enough to let the first hazy grey of morning begin to seep through the opened door behind him.

“Wake up.”

Keilee groans, stretching her arms up over her head, batting away his words now hanging in the space between them. He gets just a flash, that sickly blue color slowly blooming on the pads of her fingers, and makes a mental note to have one of the elves ensure her fire gets an extra log tonight.

“Mother is ill. We have to go into town for her.” A lie, but he’s sure his mother won’t mind, will be elated at any excuse to stay hidden, to stay out of the flashbulbs and merciless insults. The reason he even bothered coming back after the war, to protect her, to make sure she wasn’t completely alone. Some habits die so disastrously hard.

Another groan, her eyes peeling open, blinking away sleep, “You’re in last night’s clothes.”

“What?”

“You haven’t slept,” Keilee tosses her hand lazily in his direction, catches a glimpse of her fingers, and shoves the hand deep under the blankets. “You’re still in your dinner things.”

Draco forces himself not to sweep a self-conscious glance down at himself. He knows he’s still in the same clothes, doesn’t need the added embarrassment, the added look of satisfaction to creep over her face. He’s frustrated enough with himself, with his behavior, with being in her room right now. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be using her as this kind of mental crutch, a distraction. It’s dangerous. Keilee is dangerous; with her whiplash of emotions, with her on again off again closeness, with her hatred that swells up anytime she remembers she’s talking to him…sharing space, feelings, memories, with Draco Malfoy.

“Perhaps I just own many of the same suit,” he shoots back, his own dislike rising in his chest. He’s not the only one that’s done things. Isn’t the only one who deserves a cold shoulder, untrusting eyes, decisions thrown in his face. Keilee isn’t the saint here. If she fights, he’s ready to meet her on the battlefield.

Keilee huffs, “Glad to see things are back to normal. I was terribly worried we’d broken something over the past few days. I need to dress. I’ll meet you in the hall.”

“Don’t doddle.”

“I’m not a child or some school chum. You can’t boss me around,” Keilee shoots back; because she’s noticed the change between them and needs things to go back to normal or because she’s not a morning person? “Wait. I’ll be out when I’m out.”

And when she finally gestures for him to lead the way, he notices, because it’s different, the blue has faded out of her fingers.

“Is today a bad day?” He asks absentmindedly, noticing the golden F on her sweater, leading them back across the lawn, back towards those gates, so much less daunting when you’re heading out of them. He wonders if he’ll get the same stomach drop, the same foreboding sense of dread, of going backwards when they return today. Has to yank himself up and out of a half-formed thought to actually hear – no, not hear – she’s impossible not to hear, but to grasp her response.

“Not today. Soon. I can feel them,” Keilee’s face screws up. He’s worried she’s finally caught on to this whole thing, where they are, who’s walking next to her, who she’s spilling these little bits of her soul to. Instead, she frowns, shoving trembling hands deep into the pockets of those jeans he loathes oh so much. “ _It_. I meant I can feel it.”

Draco nods, calculates, wonders. How much longer can they walk this razor-thin wire of cordial? How much longer before the dam breaks and they’re shouting insults and slamming doors? Right now, what they’re doing, is playing pretend, a haphazard, slightly twisted version of make-believe he knows only has a few more scenes to play out.

His stomach dips slightly, like diving at the Quidditch pitch too fast, as they exit the gates. Their pretend life ends the second they get in that car and leave this place. Not now, but for good. The realization that Keilee’s painted on a fake face, a face for his parents – not for him, never for him – and the second they don’t need that face anymore, she’ll throw it away. She’ll go right back to hating his guts.

“May I ask you something?”

By now, they’ve stopped beside Keilee’s car. She slides around the front, gesturing towards the driver door, “Get in.”

“Do you still hate me?” He asks as he shuts the door, feeling ridiculously out of place behind the circular shape sticking out in front of him, of how he runs into obstacles as he tries to place his feet down, things sticking up out of the floor where his shoes should rest.

Keilee hands over the keys, pointing towards a little slot alongside the strange object now jabbing into his chest, “Turn it towards the front window, just until you hear the engine rev, then stop.”

“Do you still hate me?” He repeats, tone thicker, words louder.

“Now they’re three pedals. One is the gas, another the break, and the third used to aid in shifting gears. I’m sure you can feel them with your feet.”

He’s completely lost it with her avoidance, hands smacking into the stupid bit of hard plastic in front of him, causing the car to emit a strange chirp, “Dammit, Keilee! Answer the fucking question!”

“Yes!”

Her answer is out before he can change his mind, before he can realize he didn’t really want her response. Before he can realize asking the question is feeding into his own self-loathing, his own victim complex, the same stupid, pathetic, useless things he was destroying Keilee over not three days ago. And she’s continuing, shouting out at the trees through the wide front window.

“Yes! I fucking hate you! I hate this place! I hate that you’ve gotten me so wrapped up in this stupid, aristocratic, bullshit life you live! I hate that we’re sitting here in my car! I hate your stupid, pompous, blood obsessed family! But most of all, I hate you!”

He started this. He opened his mouth. He just had to scratch at that awful, incessant itch. He got what he asked for. Proof. Confirmation. All of this means nothing to her, never will, just another job. He was silly, stupid…pathetic to think anything else. She marked the line in the sand, explained to him how things would be, and he was dumb enough – arrogant? – to believe he could push it. “I’ve suddenly decided I don’t want to do this.”

“You’re in the fucking car. You’re doing this.”

“I liked you better when you drank,” Draco spits out.

“And I liked you better when I thought you were going to die in Azkaban. Now shut up and listen.”

~~~~

When she doesn’t come down to breakfast, he knows. Knows she’s glued to those sheets, locked in some horrid memory, and this knowledge twinges at something inside. Something he doesn’t recognize, something cruel and painful but also oddly human, oddly relaxing…freeing, something he can’t bother with now.

And like the glutton for pain and punishment he is, he knows she won’t want him there, knows after yesterday they’re right back to square one – mostly his fault if he’s being honest, though he’ll continue to shove off as much blame on her as he possible can – Draco trudges up the stairs. He listens for a second, knocks at her door, doesn’t wait for her to give him permission. Keilee is pale, paper-like, see-through, but she’s not in a fit. An all right start to this.

There’s a string on her stocking. He takes it, circling the thin thread around his finger, the knuckle of it gently grazing the smooth skin of her calf. Keilee jerks, pulls further into herself. Her voice cracks, raking up her throat in a painful kind of croak, “Don’t. Don’t. Please don’t.”

That word. That stupid fucking word. He wishes he’d never given her that out…that little piece of his own soul. Pleased that she didn’t take it and run with it…surprised, but comforted. Comforted that she didn’t see right through what it really meant. How much that stupid little word could send his world spiraling. Comforted, for once, that she’s too selfish, too determined to self-destruct, to open her eyes and fucking see.

Draco jerks his hand away, “Sorry.”

“Don’t do that either,” Keilee groans back.

He snaps despite himself, “What should I do?”

“We bought boxes of noodles and cheese yesterday. Just follow the instructions.”

Draco obliges. There’ll be time for dueling later.

She eats for a while, movements rhythmic, learned, involuntary. Her eyes stay glued to the far wall, staring at the moving pictures dancing across it… pictures he can’t see, but that are very real to her. The fork drops, Keilee’s brow furrowing as she stares down at the slowly congealing cheese sauce that he’s certain he screwed up – cheese shouldn’t do that, shouldn’t look that much like plastic. She turns to him, swallowing stickily, her cheeks slightly puffed out. She looks green.

“I’m going to be ill.”

He barely catches the bowl she’s now tossed away. Her hand pushes at her lips, socked feet sliding across the polished wood, her fingers grazing, missing, regripping the lavatory door. It slams shut with a bang louder, more powerful than he thought her capable of—a bad day.

Draco can hear her screaming into the empty expanse of tile. While he does get up, does toe open the door, he doesn’t offer assistance. He remembers all too well the pain shooting through his face as she elbowed him in the nose. Instead, he watches, watching the way she pushes out against invisible enemies, the way her jaw unhinges, bruised lips letting out silent screams. He returns to the bed long before she does. Unlike most, Draco doesn’t like looking at destruction. It’s too much like looking in a mirror.

“Does this place have a piano?” Keilee asks lightly when she returns from the loo, curling into herself, deciding she doesn’t like it, drawing her knee back into her chest.

Draco nods, realizes she can’t see him, and answers, “Downstairs.”

“Will you play?”

“If that’s what you want,” he stands, reconsiders, and decides just to ask. She already hates his guts, “Would you like me to levitate you?”

“No,” Keilee snaps. Too quickly. “I can walk. And I don’t want your bloody arm either, so keep it to yourself.”

Fascinating. Only moments ago, she was a writhing mess on the floor, a heap of tears and screams, and limbs contorted at uncomfortably unnatural angles, and now she wants to play the hero…pick up what’s left of her pride from the floor. He gets it. In his own way, Draco truly does understand, and that understanding is what keeps his hands glued to his side. What keeps him from reaching out, as she sways, uses the wall, nearly falls.

She needs this walk, this chance to jut her chin out, to roll her shoulder back. This is for her ego. This is for the same reasons he walked across that courtyard. The same reason he left that school with his hand clasped in his mother's, refusing to look back, refusing to see who was still standing. Yes, they’re more alike than she’ll ever admit.


	13. Rage

There are no comfortable couches here, no blankets, nothing soft in sight. Not like at the beach, where nearly every inch of space is covered in lightness, in a softness that’s noticeably lacking here. She doesn’t bring it up. Doesn’t really even let the thought swirl around for too long, just taking a spot up against the wall, curling her knees to her. It took too much effort to get here, to keep from tripping over her own feet…her own memories.

It’s getting worse. That familiar blue seeps up under the fingernails, trickling out and up in thin tendrils, ink in water. How much longer till her charm doesn’t work? How much longer till people start noticing? Asking questions? She wonders if it’s an external sickness or if it’s past that point now, if she’s brought it into herself, let it fester…made it worse.

“Still with me?”

Keilee wants him to shut up. She so desperately wants him to be quiet, to shut his mouth long enough to forget that it’s him. She can; she’s learned how. It’s a deliciously beautiful, self laid trap. Because she’s telling him things, telling him things that Draco Malfoy should not know. Things she’d tell Ron or Ginny or George or Hermione…maybe even Harry, but never Malfoy. Yet, her mind slips up when he’s quiet; when he just stops yammering away, she doesn’t see the shock of white blonde. She doesn’t see anything, just feels, and just lets the words go. She’s quite certain she’s let too much go, and yet now that it’s started, Keilee isn’t entirely sure she can stop it. Is terrified of the consequences.

“Keilee?”

Her head jerks up, running into the wall's wooden paneling, pain blossoming in white-hot waves. Keilee groans, fingers gingerly probing over the sore spot. He’s there too fast, on his knees trying to weasel his own hand through her tangled locks.

Keilee jerks again, sliding herself across the marbled floor, “Don’t touch me.”

“I’m just trying to help,” he defends.

“I don’t want it,” fire grows in her belly. “Don’t you understand; I don’t want your bloody help? I don’t want you there, by my bedside. I don’t want you to care. Why do you all of a sudden care so fucking much? Stop treating me like I’m something important to you! I’m not! I don’t want to be!”

Draco’s face goes cold, unreadable, eyes going so steely they turn black. Dangerous. He’s dangerous. He throws himself across the floor, yanking her towards him by a fistful of her sweater, “Stop. Yelling.”

If it weren’t for the alarm bells going off in her head, telling her to get up, to fight back, to run and run and not stop until she’s someplace safe…someplace far, far away, she’d find the switch thrilling. Find the power in his fist and the way his jaw squares off so perfectly, like chiseled stone, mind mumbling exhilarating. She saw it with Fred, in the way one second he’d be playfully flicking at the edge of her skirt, and the next he’d be sinking his teeth into the sensitive spot just under her ear. But the alarm bells are blaring, revving up in speed and pitch as he growls. This is not Fred. This is Malfoy.

Keilee lets out a shriek, pawing desperately at his locked fingers, trying to wiggle out of the sweater, trapping her to him. He growls again, his words a mess of teeth and spittle and angry lips. Keilee bares her own teeth, now screaming for the sake of making noise, the sake of setting him off further. Something inside has snapped…her ability to care… self-preservation. This is dangerous. The man looming over her is dangerous. He doesn’t need a wand to kill. But she can’t find it in her to be anything but stubborn but defiant.

She kicks, clawing, feels her nails dig into soft flesh. Hears a hiss of pain. His grip loosens. She scrambles, tries to get purchase on the unforgivingly smooth floor. Fails. Is yanked up by a fistful of hair. He drags her, kicking and screaming and clawing and biting, through the halls. A door is thrown open and then unbearable cold, hitting her whole body at once like some wicked curse.

“Cool off.”

The water, so much like ice, bites at her raw skin. She scrambles, tries to escape the assault, gets pushed back by uncaringly strong arms, gets held down. Cries and curses and bites and scratches to no avail. Throughout it all, he sneers down at her, his eyes dead.

“Fuck you!”

Draco scoffs, that unforgiving smirk playing over his lips, “You said you didn’t want me to care. Didn’t want me to be nice. So here. Here’s me being the version of myself you want…the version you’ve conjured up in that twisted little mind. You asked, so I’m obliging.”

She growls at him, teeth bared, hair plastered to her face. It’s pathetic and childish, and months ago, she wouldn’t have ever dreamed of doing it, but she does. This is what he’s driven her to. He’s snipped the last few threads holding her together, and now she’s feral. The worst part is he doesn’t even seem to notice, doesn’t even flick his eyes down to her before he turns, headed for the door.

Draco pauses, and for one idiotic second, she thinks he’s going to whip back around and start laughing, telling her that friends joke. She’s come unhinged, “Get up off the floor. You look pathetic.” 

The door slides shut behind him.

Keilee instantly goes for the bottle, her old friend, that blissfully familiar burn at the base of her throat. She doesn’t stop at one, smashing the empty wine bottle against the worn floorboards as she yanks open the beautifully shining, oh so inviting, Malfoy liquor cabinet. Some of the bottles die before they’re uncorked, hitting the ground and splintering into millions of pieces of tiny glass and sticky liquid. She does it because she can, keeps a bottle tipped to her lips as her other hand plays duck-duck-goose with the expensive whiskeys and bourbons. And it feels as delicious as it tastes. Because this is power, power to decide, power to destroy.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?”

It sounds like Draco, darker, but in her drunken state, it’s him, “Drinking. Getting totally blitz.” Hiccups, thinks of some ridiculous shanty the Gryffindors used to sing after winning a Quidditch match, chuckles lightly at the memory, puts on a terrible Scot’s accent, almost singing the words, “you cunt.”

Keilee grins, big and slopping and drunk. She wears this expression, pirouettes like a lazy top, and shatters. Because it’s not Draco. It’s so much worse than Draco.

She hiccups, once, twice, three times, gasping at the air that no longer seems interested in filling the room. It’s too sticky, much too sweet. And his gaze, brutal, demanding, too similar to Draco’s, holds her captive…like a bird in a cage. He sneers – a mirror image – glaring down his nose at the destruction crunching under his boots. He paces, turns sharply, the squeal of glass against flagstone making Keilee woozy, her head pounding.

“Cunt – ” he stops, studies her, crinkles his nose as if displeased with what he’s seeing, “ – is a filthy word. Are you filthy, Ms. Holloway?” 

Hiccup. She balls her hands in her hair, pulling, reveling in the sharp prickles of pain that pop up over her skull. Knows this isn’t helping. Tastes the words on the tip of her tongue and lets them tumble past her lips, “Some people may say that, yes.”

A diplomatic answer, one that she’s rather proud her alcohol-logged brain was able to come up with.

“And does Draco say yes?”

Now that he’s not pinning her down with his glare, now that she’s certain he isn’t going to bash her skull in, that liquid courage begins to bubble up, seeping back into her veins, “He’s leading the charge.”

“Would you like to know what I think?” Lucius takes up his pacing again, not waiting for her to answer. “I think your marriage is a farce. I think it’s a slippery little trick. I think you’re here because they want something. I think Draco is weak for not seeing it.”

Keilee grins, reaching around for another bottle, uncorking it with her teeth, spitting the stopper to the ground, downing at least a third of the bottle. She wipes at her lips, burps, so unladylike, “You do an awful lot of thinking, not that it’s done you any good. You’re still a has-been, still disgraced your name.”

“You bitch!”

He’s like a viper. Fast and sure and just as venomous. The first smack is unexpected and burns like hot coals. The second is numbed. The third doesn’t even register. There’s ringing in her ears, something hot pooling, spilling over her bottom lip and dribbling down her chin. Another fucking hiccup. And then the world goes black, and she’s almost certain she’s passed out. Would’ve been so sure of it but for his voice. Draco this time…she knows. It can’t be anyone else.

She’s yanked roughly to her feet, shoved carelessly out of the room. He towers over her, blocking out the light, “Go upstairs. Now.”

“Dr – ”

“Listen,” he shakes her, just the once, enough for her head to bob back and forth on her neck like a broken doll. “You stupid, _stupid_ , girl, listen for once in your pointless existence. Get the fuck out of my sight before I do something you’ll regret.”

For a second, Keilee lets herself sway, flicks her tongue out over her bottom lip, sweeping up the sticky, metallic blood still leaking from it, and grins. She’s sure there’s blood in her teeth; sure she looks deranged. She doesn’t care. “Fuck.” She takes an unsteady step forward, leering at him. “You.”

~~~~~~~

She wakes up in a strange bed with a strange body next to her. At first, she panics, thinks she’s made a terrible mistake. Simmers in that panic until she sees a rumple of red hair, lets out a relaxed sigh. She disapparated, brought herself someplace safe, familiar. Keilee stirs, rousing the man next to her.

George gives her a sleepy smile, pulling her in closer to his chest, fisting her hair, nuzzling his nose into the hollow of her neck, “You smell like a liquor cabinet.”

“I know.”

“Who split your lip?”

Keilee wiggles a hand up between them, gently dusting over the cut in her lip, pushing at it, feeling the swollen skin, “Lucius.”

George jerks, knees her in the shin, apologizes sheepishly, and then casually brushes her hand away, tipping her chin up with his thumb, “He hit you?”

“Slapped me. I can’t remember how many times, but it was more than once.” Out of habit, Keilee goes to chew on her lip, gently nips at George’s thumb as he tries to stop her. They both chuckle. It feels like waking up on a Sunday morning with nothing to do, normal, warm. She allows herself to fully relax for the first time since Harry blindsided her in that alley. “Draco may have too, but I can’t remember. I asked him not to, once upon a time. I’m not sure he cares anymore.”

Hazel eyes search hers, silently pleading for her to be open with him, to just answer the questions, to not try and paint on some kind of shield, not try to tough it out, “Is it safe for you to go back?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs, snuggles back into George’s chest, tugs his arms around her. “I can’t remember if he was saving me or shoving me into another cold shower.”

Again George tries to jerk away from her, but Keilee doesn’t allow him, holds him tight, “Why’d he put you in the shower?”

“I was having a fit,” her cheeks burn, hating to admit she’s still suffering, that the man who lost his own flesh and blood is coping better than the sodding girlfriend. “Bad day. Bad memories.”

George swallows hard, Adams apple bobbing against her forehead, “I can talk to Harry.”

“Please don’t.” A beg, an unashamed plea. “I – I can – I can do it. Don’t talk to Harry.”

He gently shushes her, rubs his thumb against her temple, hums, “I won’t. But it’s a standing offer, Kei. If it gets too much – if – if this happens again…. Just ask.”

“I will. If it’s too much, I will.” Keilee revels, drowns in how wonderful of a man George is. How he’s never wavered in his friendship, how he’s always been able to look at her, how kind and open and unhardened he is even now. The feelings of gratitude flood through her so quickly, spilling out against his chest.

He let her show up here, likely in the middle of the night, definitely unannounced. And he asked no questions, none she can remember anyway. He put her in his bed. Made sure she was safe. Didn’t judge. Didn’t try and tell her what to do. Didn’t chastise her. George is just there, warm and strong and so unbelievably comforting.

“Why are you crying?”

Keilee hiccups, “Because Malfoy was right.”

“It’s too early in the morning for you to go spouting bullocks.”

“You weren’t there. You didn’t hear. He was right. Hit the nail on the head.”

George chuckles, the sound reverberating through him, “Lions care little for the opinions of sheep.”

“I’m not a lion,” Keilee corrects. “That’s you.”

Another chuckle, and it feels so incredible to be around such normalcy, “Snakes and rats then. Point being, don’t put stock into his words, Kei. You’re better than him, always have been, always will be. Fuck him.”

“No thanks.” And she laughs back, throwing her head back at the absurdity of it all, nose crinkled up. “What time is it?”

George rolls to the side, fishes something up off the floor, “One.”

“As good a time as any to start the day.”

“Breakfast?” George questions, now stretching, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, yawning loudly.

“Yes, please.”

They eat bowl after bowl of cereal, watching old cartoons on an off-colored television propped on a stack of books in the corner of the room. You’d never guess George makes thousands of Galleons a day, not from this place. It’s a throwaway flat, a place he purchased in order to get away from the joke shop while he was healing. She expected him to move back in above the store a long time ago. He hasn’t, though, for his own reasons, for reasons she lets him keep private. Something’s don’t need to be shared.

“Do you think all wounds can heal?” Keilee breaks the comfortable silence of the flat; her voice chapped and cracking.

George flicks his wrist in the direction of the television, the screen skipping to a staticy black. “Mental or physical?”

“Both.”

He swallows hard, his eyes guiltily avoiding hers. He scratches at the back of his neck, his knee, heel. George clears his throat, rocking slowly back and forth on his stool, “No. Some things are so deep, so ingrained in us that they change our make up, the way we think, the way we live our lives. Some things just fester and become you.”

Keilee heaves a large sigh, frowning slightly as she tips her head against his shoulder, “I think I’m festering.”

“Yeah,” George doubles her sigh, his cheek tilting against the top of her head, arm snaking its way around her shoulders, giving them a friendly squeeze, “me too, kid. Me too.”

~~~~~~

He slinks into her room like a shadow, primly perching himself at the edge of her bed, “You were gone.”

Her eyes dust over the thin pink lines running down his face. She sees how he tries to keep that side of him hidden, catches his fingers as they go to scratch at it. At least she’s not the only one marked after yesterday’s explosion.

“Yes.” She catches his eyes sink to the cut on her lip, deep by George’s assessment. She’d refused the healing spell he’d offered, choosing instead to wear the injury like a badge of honor, to shove it back down their throats like hot metal spikes. “Admiring daddy’s handiwork? Upset you decided to sit this round out?”

“I – no – what? That’s – absurd – completely lost it. I – ” It pleases her the way he stutters, fumbling for his words. It pleases her to no end. “You were gone.”

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy,” not caring how he flinches, not caring about the wild panic that filled his voice when he begged her not to call him that…not here, “that point has been established.”

“Where did you go?” Draco grits out, rising from the bed a half-inch, scratches at those deliciously triumphant pink lines, and sits back down, the movement vibrating through the mattress.

Keilee shrugs, studies her nails, “I don’t believe that’s any of your business.”

“I – ” He grits his teeth, lets his lips contort into a sneer for a split second, and then smooths himself out. “Don’t leave again.”

She lets out a huff, a bored little escape of air only barely flaring her nostrils, “Let’s not pretend that’s a demand you can make. I am not yours. You cannot control where or when I go. Get that fucking Turner. I’m tired of this place.”

“Now who’s making demand?”

“Me,” she leans in, just a little, just enough so that his back straightens out like a board, shoulders going stiff. “Because unlike you, I have the power here. I call the shots. And if you don’t ask by tonight, I’ll tear this whole fucking house down, find it, and leave you to whoever shows up first. I do hope it’s the Death Eaters.”

He grimaces as if a bad taste has just raced across his tongue, “Is that where you were? Off with those Ministry cunts discussing how to best ruin the rest of my life?”

“Cunt, Mr. Malfoy – ” she stares him down, capturing his eyes in hers, daring him to look away “ – is a filthy word.”


	14. Hate

His father’s words ring back at him, reminding him. He’d gotten a few pops to the head as well. His lip didn’t bust open though, thank Merlin for small mercies. The memories swirl before him, consume him, as he storms through the halls.

Draco flies through the office doors, picking up a vase sitting in one of the alcoves, sending it soaring towards the floor. He’s throwing a tantrum, he knows, but he doesn’t have the willpower to stop it, “I want that fucking Time Turner!”

“Good Lord, Draco. You’re acting like a brat. I’ve already told you,” his father shoots him an icy glare, “I don’t have it. I haven’t the slightest idea where it is. I assume the Ministry took it in one of their meddlesome raids.”

“Bullshit!” Draco goes for another vase, aims it at the floor, lets out a throaty growl as it halts in midair, flying back to its spot.

“Compose yourself or get out of my office.”

“Why are you fighting me?” Pleading now, nearly going down onto his knees. “I need it.”

Lucius keeps his back turned, keeps steadily watching the grass outside the window, “Why?”

“Can’t you see what I’ve done?” He’ll play into the disappointment, into his father’s belief that since failing to kill his late Headmaster, Draco’s done nothing useful with his life. It’ll burn like Firewhiskey going down, but he’ll do it because it’ll work; eventually, it will. “My life is one colossal fuck up after another! Hogwarts! My trial! Deciding to marry that wench upstairs!”

He reaches out to grab at his father, changes his mind, realizes that’s going too far, and begins pacing, “If you just gave it to me, I could fix all this, go back. We’d win this time.”

“You were always infinitely foolish, Draco,” his father drawls. “Going back would change nothing. You’d still make the same mistakes. You’re weak because your mother was too gentle and because I wasn’t harsh enough.”

“Don’t talk about mother!” Draco thunders, forgets he doesn’t have his wand, and goes flying back across the room, hitting his head against the wall, that stupid vase finally shattering against the floor.

The door swings open, and for a sideways second, he thinks it’s Keilee, and he might hate her guts right now, but he doesn’t want her to walk into this. The swish of black robes calms him, her stern voice repairing the damage now littered throughout the office, “I heard yelling.”

“Your son is blubbering.”

Narcissa shoots him a glance, offers her hand, “ _Our_ son, Lucius. Draco is our son. Why are you fighting?”

Lucius gives Narcissa a snort, his eyes rolling in their sockets, “He wants the Time Turner, trying to fix his mistakes.”

“Give it to him.” It’s said in a gentle voice, but it’s clearly a demand laced with a silent threat. Do it – I’m not giving you a choice.

“I’ve already – ”

Narcissa holds up a hand, dismissing whatever his father was going to say, “Give him the Time Turner.” She turns to Draco as his father sweeps from the room. “You need to leave. You need to take that girl and get as far away from here as possible. I told you not to come back; for your own reasons, you refused to listen.” His mother frowns, gently collects his face in her hands, “My stubborn, stubborn boy.”

Lucius busts back in, tosses something shiny through the air, and stalks back out. Draco feels like he’s just captured the weight of the world, that weight glinting up at him through the light streaming through the window. He instantly hates it, wishes his father had refused. He feels dizzy staring down at the sand in the little hourglass at its center, sucking in uneasy, jagged breaths.

His mother’s hand steadies him, her eyes glittering back at him in a smile, “I will offer some advice, though I hardly believe you’ll follow it. Perhaps it will settle my own heart. Be ready, because when she is, she will hit you like a house.”

“I don’t – ” He blinks down at the golden trinket in his palm, watches it disappear as his mother curls her fingers around his, making him consume that weight, forcing him to face whatever consequences it carries.

What an utter mess he’s made of all of this.

“You’ll understand, you will. Now leave. Get the hell out of this house and don’t come back.” She’s wearing a hard expression, that deep love, the love only a mother can ever know, still gleaming in her eyes. “You aren’t welcome here anymore.”

Draco storms back through the house, a different kind of fire under his feet. Something in his mother’s words spoke a warning, this place was never safe, but now it’s a warzone. He’s already throwing her things out of drawers, ripping dresses from hangers, and jamming them into her trunk when she wakes up.

Keilee blinks a few times, rubs at her eyes as if trying to rouse herself from a dream, “Why are you in my knicker drawer?”

It’s a whine as if all the fight has gone out of her. Draco continues his mission, “We’re leaving.”

“You got it?” Keilee instantly perks up, scooting off the bed and joining him with his task.

A snap decision, “No.”

“So why are we leaving?”

“Just – ” Draco shakes his head, feeling the Time Turner digging into his thigh through his pocket. “Just shut up. Until we get in the car, shut up.”

“You’re scaring me.”

Another slice of vulnerability. He hates it, wants to rip it from her throat, can’t imagine that anything like that ever sent him into a sentimental tailspin. But bites it back, swallows the feelings down, they’ll be a time. This isn’t it. “Good. Move.”

He drags her from the house, bobbling and tripping over her feet behind him. She clings to him, fingers digging into his shoulder each time she nearly falls, and it fills him with power, his head woozy from it. _Need me_ that part of him sneers, _let me terrify you; let me be the person you run to when the whole damn world is caving in._ He pushes that part away, lets it float away with the squeal of the iron gates.

“Drive.”

“Ma – ”

“Do as I say, Keilee.”

“I need an explanation; you’re acting like we’re barely escaping death,” despite this she starts the car, starts pulling away from that wretched house. “I don’t even know where I’m meant to be taking us.”

Draco bites into his knuckle, tries to collect his thoughts, tries to get his heart to stop jumping up out of his throat. It all feels so anticlimactic…so easy. He’s not sure what he was expecting, but it isn’t this. Maybe the Turner was supposed to do more, was supposed to symbolize something new, but he’s still here, sitting in this stupid car with a girl who could care less if he lived or died. It feels unfinished, and until that changes, he’s not telling her. Somehow that’s the only thing that feels right about this whole situation.

“My father didn’t have it, doesn’t know where it is. I pried too much, he – he’s like a wounded dog.”

She seems to understand, nods, flicks her eyes over to him for a second before settling them on the road. This is the first time he’s had the chance to really look at her after everything. He doesn’t regret his actions, Keilee was being utterly ridiculous, but she looks miserable. Her cheeks are sunken in again; there’s deep, ugly purple bleeding into the skin under her eyes, her hands shake. She blinks so slowly he’s worried she’s going to fall asleep, maybe already is. The question sits on the tip of his tongue; he remembers her shrieking form, yelling up at him from the floor, and swallows it down.

“Where are we going?” Her voice is small, beaten down. He’s tamed her again. It’s becoming an addiction.

“Home.”

She swallows; the sound fills the silent car, “Yours or mine?”

He shakes his head, rests his temple against the cool glass, and shuts his eyes, “Just home, Kei. Don’t argue.”

He wakes up to a soft, electrical glow, takes a second to realize he’s still in the car, looks to his right. Keilee stares out at the building in front of them, her seat pushed back, knees clutched to her chest.

“Why are we stopped?”

“I coul – ” her voice hitches as if she’s been crying. “I couldn’t do it anymore.”

“Get out.”

“You don’t – ”

He flashes his wand, “Get out of the car, Keilee.”

The door pops. She slides from the vehicle, tumbles around to his side. Like a child, like some sad, dejected animal. Keilee slumps into the seat, doesn’t bother with the safety belt, pulls her knees back to her chest. “I guess we hate each other equally now.”

“Don’t say that,” he whispers into the darkness, just for himself as the car begins to carry them towards home, his charm holding. “Don’t you ever say that.”

~~~~~~

Draco showers. Showers again. Stands under that warm jet of water, hoping it’ll drown him. The regret sunk in slowly and then slammed him in the face. He can’t get the filth of it off his skin, off the twisted, gnarled, spongy recesses of his brain. He fought it off for as long as he could; forced himself not to sleep, to sleep too much, to starve, to gorge himself, none of it helped. In the end, she broke him, Keilee’s stupid, crumpled, broken body just there at the bottom of the stairs. She didn’t move for two days. Made him step past her, made him look at the destruction he holds in his hands. In the end, it all just reminded him too much of what he’s fighting against, fighting not to become. So he feels regret, lets it sit at the bottom of his stomach and make him ill.

She’s in bed when he finally emerges from his room; he can hear her labored breath through her chamber door. Drunken breath. The second she got up from those steps, Keilee went into a tailspin. She’s never here, not really. She leaves, reappears, drinks more, and then sleeps. Repeat pattern. He hears her scream, hears her cry and curse and throw things around. Draco’s sure her room is destroyed, can’t bring himself to check.

It’s sad. And instead of writing her off, he finds himself feeling sympathetic, looking into the life that could just as easily be his. If he cared more. If he let himself slip for even a second. He won’t…can’t afford to. The difference is that Keilee doesn’t have the eyes on her, doesn’t get those letters constantly reminding him of those watching…their ability to tack on another six months to his magic ban. She flies under the radar, is allowed to throw her fits. Draco couldn’t. They’d lock him up at the first hint of a storm. Draco knows broken, has lived it, has fought through it. Keilee’s there now, and she’s losing her battle.

He’d help. He really would if he thought it wouldn’t cause a fight. Keilee’s still got fight in her; that’s why she’s still going out, still trying to live some shattered semblance of her life. Draco is pretty sure he’d go into that fight, be willing to come out the other side; he’s done it once, what’s one more time? But she won’t stay long enough. And that leaving tears at him because he’s still using her for a crutch. Told himself he wouldn’t and failed.

Draco doesn’t want that, fought himself over it, made himself physically ill. He doesn’t want to be comforted by those screams and that destruction, but he is, because at least if that’s happening, she’s here. He’s not the one supposed to be protecting her. She’s here because people want him dead…dangerous people. People that should chill the very blood in his veins. But if they’re after him, she’s in danger by proxy, and for some reason, that drives him up a wall. She shouldn’t be risking her life for him. He’s not worth that. Doesn’t want to be worth that.

He paces through the kitchen, tearing his hair out, grappling with himself. He hates…loathes…would love to carve out that piece of him that feels this way. She’s not worth this. Keilee is nobody, has always been nobody – _lies_ – will always be nobody. But she’s here now, and she just looks so damn fragile, terribly and viciously fragile. He’s proud of himself for still being able to care, that a human part still remains within the stones he’s made his life into. But why her? Why, out of the millions of insignificant people on this stupid planet, does it have to be Keilee Holloway?

The door behind him swings open. She jumps, like a child caught with their mouth smeared with icing. Keilee, or what’s left of her at this point, blinks at him…looks through him. God is it infuriating. Just once, he wishes she would see him. Really fucking see him.

“There’s tea on,” he says stupidly.

She starches at her head, gets her fingers caught in a tangle of hair, and curses, “We’re out of bourbon.”

“There’s gin.” Because this is the first conversation they’ve had in almost four days, and ‘no, _you’re_ out of bourbon’ just doesn’t seem like the appropriate response right now. This might be her cry for help.

Keilee fumbles with the teapot, hissing as she misses the cup, dousing her thumb in boiling water. Draco whips out his wand, clearing away the mess and healing her finger wordlessly. Let her get upset.

He sees the flash of the fight ripple through her and quickly drain away, “Out of that too.”

“Oh.” Because he will not, _will not_ feed into the destruction…not that way.

“George will have some,” she says it to herself, a simple assurance.

“Is that where you go?”

Keilee’s head snaps in his direction as if she’s forgotten he’s in the room, “What?”

“George’s? Is that where you go when you aren’t here?”

She teeters, as if deciding how to answer that question takes physical effort, “Sometimes.”

“You could stay,” he tries, foolishly, already knowing it won’t work. Draco doesn’t have that much sway with her, but he still has to try. “I’ll drink with you.”

Once more, Keilee’s eyes settle on him, study him for a second, and then she disappears out of the kitchen door, her steaming cup of tea still hovering haphazardly on the edge of the counter.

~~~~~

More pacing. More tearing his hair out by the root. More showers. More scratching and tearing and willing that part of him to disappear completely. More listening, he can’t seem to stop listening. More colorless bile hitting rippling water. More unbearable silence. More sleepless nights. More gut-wrenching panic. More fighting it down, keeping it in check. More avoiding mirrors, avoiding glancing down at himself.

He wishes she’d never come. He wishes he could go back to living his solitary, miserable, painfully fake life. He wishes she’d rip the lid off the whole thing. He argues with himself, having headache-inducing, fists to cuffs fights that keep him up all night. He rubs his skin raw, lets the wounds fester, heals himself, and does it all over again – falling into old habits, thoroughly enjoying the little slices of pain that prickle under his perfectly starched shirts. Keilee is driving him mad. _Take responsibility_. His infatuation with who she could be, what she could demand him to be, is driving him mad.

And she keeps leaving. Keeps coming back with sickening black on her neck and the imprints of other people on her arms. And he hates it. And he hates himself for hating it. And he hates himself for caring. Hates himself for thinking he’s allowed to feel this way. Hates himself for thinking. Hates himself.

There it is. The root of the problem. Hate. A deep-rooted disgust for who he is. For what he’s done. Hate that festers. Get healed. Rips back open.


	15. Him

Flashing lights. The throbbing pulse beat of music. That beautiful, intoxicating shed of responsibility, inhibition, that only comes with being drunk. Those dazzling, ocean blue eyes that have been following her for the past thirty minutes. This is freedom. Anyone who disagrees is a goddamn liar.

She lets him touch her, snake his arms around her and explore. No limits. No regrets. She doesn’t even know his name. Only knows the chisel of his jaw, the way his muscles feel under her grasp as they flex, the way he tastes – like fire and smoke. It’s only in the morning when she can properly see him, that she notices the similarities. Lets it ruminate for half a second, and then she disappears. No name. No number. Just gone. How she likes it. What she’s used to. Permanence leads to replacement.

Keilee hates this place. Hates its stupid cream fabrics and the way it always smells like vanilla and sea breeze. Hates that it feels like it could be full of life. She stumbles over the scattered pieces of a broken mirror, slips, cuts her foot, and lands face first in crumpled sheets.

More lights. More alcohol. More exhilarating freedom. Another set of eyes…hands…lips…teeth. More realization. More avoiding it. More falling into sheets that smell like a coffee house.

She rips them up. Doesn’t remember. Wakes up in a heap of torn fabric and feathers. Wears them in her hair like some kind of crown. Rips the new ones open too. Is too far gone to realize that for a third time there’s crisp, clean, fluffy comfort to fall into. Wakes up. Goes out. Realizes. Forgets.

Draco is waiting for her by the door. She should’ve just left from her room. Curse this nicotine habit. Resolve. She can do this. Keilee fishes into her bag pulls out the crumpled packet, flashes it to him. Draco nods, opening the front door and leading her out onto the porch. Keilee studies him as he performs that intoxicating ritual, in, out through parted lips, back into his nose. She tries to find differences, is blasted in the face with similarities, and stops her hunt altogether.

Instead, she breathes in the smoke, lets the buzz settle into her skin, watches, allows herself to enjoy what she sees. It immediately feels wrong, dirty, makes her head woozy. Stops that too. For the first time since she’s been here, Keilee wants to say something. Wracks her brain. Comes up with nothing. “I might be gone for a few days.”

“Stop leaving.”

It’s the first time Keilee realizes that he looks worn down, distraught…tired. Draco looks like that little boy standing on those stone steps, all eyes on him, his mother begging him to come to her. Destroyed.

“No.”

“Please.” His eyes lock with hers, a silent desperation she doesn’t understand in them. “Just don’t.”

She blows a puff of smoke out through her nose, tosses the cigarette butt over the porch railing into the sandy front yard, and immediately lights another. “Why?”

Partly curious. Partly wondering how far she can take this before he decides to back out.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Draco shakes his head, rakes his fingers through his hair. He’s giving up too easily. Keilee wants nothing to do with that.

“Try me.”

“I – when – ” he fumbles, growls, pulls at his hair some more and spits the words at her as if dispelling some kind of poison. “You can’t imagine what it does to me. You can’t.” He’s talking nonsense. “I need you here. Just be here. Please.”

He’s a liar. A snake. A bastard. Where does he get off pretending like he cares? Pretending like her actions have any bearing on him? Keilee slides off the railing, already pulling up the image of where she’d rather be, “Please is your thing. I’m going. Don’t wait up.”

She thinks she hears him mumble, _I can’t help it_ , brushes it off. Appears in a dirty alley.

The lights are too bright, making her dizzy. The music thunders in her ears, her heart beating against it. He flashes, brought to life by little white lines, a vice she thought she gave up long ago. He’s there behind her eyelids, there in the flashes of green and red and blue. He’s everywhere. Keilee spins and drinks and snorts, trying to outrun his image. He’s around her, in her, consuming.

“Leave me alone!” She yells over the pounding music, over the talking and laughter. “Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”

She’s spinning, spiraling, can’t feel her hands, her legs, herself. Keilee slams into a wall of flesh, recognizes the flash of red hair, the spattering of freckles, and goes after it like a feral animal. Her fingers stumble over scratchy wool, lips seeking out any exposed skin. She needs to sink into this, let it take her, and bury her. In some far off, long shut down part of her brain she can hear his voice, pulling her in, growing…

“Keilee stop. Stop. This isn’t what you want.”

“Please,” she whispers, tangling her fingers in a silky mane of hair. “Please.”

“You don’t want this,” he grits back, capturing her wrists in his hand, using the other to gently push her away from him.

“George – ” her lips still searching out his, desperately, needing to know if his lips, his teeth, his tongue feel the same as his brothers.

“You’re drunk, Kei.” His voice has pity in it. It disgusts her that they give it to her.

“Please. Please. Ple – ”

He cuts her off, sharp, commanding, “We agreed. Agreed it’d be too much, that we could never…I could never.” George sighs, slackening his grip on her wrists. “It’s a bad idea. We wouldn’t be able to fix that.”

She’s crying now, the tears etching burning tracks in her cheeks, “Please. Because if not you…I’m worried. Worried that it – that it’ll be – ” but the rest of the fear never makes it past her lips. Her eyes flutter, damp lashes sticking to her skin, and she’s dead to the world.

~~~~~~~

There’s a cigarette and a shot glass sitting on the bedside table. Keilee lights the cigarette, takes the shot, sucks in more smoke, swallows. She shakes her head, pulling in more smoke as she stumbles towards the door, knowing the path by muscle memory alone. She sinks to the concrete of the porch, only then noticing she’s only in knickers and an unbuttoned flannel…George’s. _Shit._

Keilee has murky memories of last night, hazy black and white things with flash burns in them. She was at the bar. White lines. He was there. White lines. But he wasn’t really there. White lines. It was too loud. Too busy. Too much. Worry, crippling fear. George. His skin under her lips. He’s in pain. She’s hurting him. She’d asked. They’d promised. She’s a bitch.

“It’s below freezing. Come inside, Keilee.” It’s a command. Not optional. No negotiations.

George offers her another shot, his eyes never leaving her hand. Keilee’s eyes follow his gaze, brush over her fingers. The cigarette tumbles from her lips. Her hand is blue. No, she tugs up her sleeve, not her hand, half her arm. Right up to the elbow, turning her veins black. Keilee reaches for her wand, mutters under her breath, and heaves a sigh as the blue starts to recede, to draw itself out of her arm like poison from a wound. She looks up at him, hates herself. Hates the way he looks at her with that sad little frown.

“George, I’m – ”

He holds up his spatula, “Forgiven. Forgotten.”

“Let me say this,” Keilee huffs back, wishing just for once George would wheel around and rip her a new one. Lord knows she deserves it. “What I did last night was completely out of line. I should have never put you in that position. I’d prefer you throw me out on the street, but seems as you are golden-hearted through and through I am utterly, terribly sorry.”

George spins to her, plants a gentle kiss on the top of her head; “You’ll wear a hole in your brain if you keep worrying so much. You made a mistake last night. God knows I made my fair share in the beginning. You’re just a late bloomer as it is.” He drops down to kneel in front of her, winking, “Don’t forget who caused us to have that conversation in the first place.”

“You are more than I deserve, Weasley.”

He flashes a smile, drops it, “We do need to talk though, Kei. This, whatever it was you were doing last night, have been doing…you can’t keep it up. Just like before. It doesn’t work. You get sick. Whatever it is that’s making it bad, we can talk about it. If – if you don’t want to talk about it with me, then someone else. You just – this can’t be maintained.”

“Is that your polite way of saying I need psychiatric help?” Defensive, shields up. She’s not crazy; devastated, destroyed, completely and utterly wrecked, so incredibly sad that it aches in her bones, but not crazy. Doesn’t need the white walls and careful smiles of St. Mungo’s.

“No,” George smacks his hand against the plastic countertop. A bit of that anger Keilee so desperately wanted. “Dammit. I’m asking you to talk to me. Like you did before. To let me help you. Because for God’s sake you need fucking help! There,” he nods, straightens his shirt, “I said it. You need help. What you’re doing right now, it’s shitting all over his memory.”

She bursts into tears, big baby tears with snot running down her face. Because he’s right. She’s going belly up. Fred would be devastated, disappointed. And that crushes her. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was doing better, healing, feeling, and then they sent her to him. Him. It spills out of her like a bullet from a gun, “I almost went to him. I al – almost…almost…. But I came here. Because I couldn’t. That. Him. I – ”

Keilee spins, pulls the bin towards her, and vomits.

George sighs; resigned, disappointed, annoyed, “I’ll run a bath.”

“I’m sorry I’m not better,” she collects a clump of bubbles, pulls them towards her, pushes them away. “That I’m festering.”

George leans his temple against the side of the claw-foot tub, so out of place in the orange tiled bathroom, “I’m sorry I yelled. Truth is, I’m not better either, Kei. I’m destroyed. Wrecked. I took the Aura job so I wouldn’t have to go back to that shop. I never want to step foot in that place again. I want to burn it to the ground if I’m being completely honest. I cry and I scream and beg for our places to be switched. Everyday.

And I know it’s unfair, but I see you and I think how much happier you’d be if it was me. If you still had Fred. And then I beg a lot more. Sometimes having you here is so damn painful but it reminds me why I keep trying. Because of Fred. Because Fred would want that.”

Keilee nods, “So you’re pretending?”

“Yeah,” George grins. “That was my very long-winded way of saying I’m pretending. Hoping that one day something will click and it’ll be real. I’m going to ask you a question, and no matter how bad you think the answer is, how upset or disappointed or whatever you think I’ll be, I need an honest answer.”

Another nod.

“You said you almost went to _him_. Who is him?”

Keilee stares down at the bubbles, finds a clear spot of water, catches her reflection in grey.

“Malfoy,” she grumbles, running his name in with her next sentiment, hoping George misses the foul word. “I don’t want to be like with. I just – I don’t know – It’s been two fucking years. I thought after this long – ” she frowns, dropping her head to her knees. “ There’s this empty part of me, so _fucking empty_ , George, and I can’t – I can’t fix it.”

He doesn’t miss it. George lets the name cloud his vision, his usually bright eyes flashing black. He doesn’t bring it up though, doesn’t force her to discuss further, takes her rushed change of subject, and runs with it. Keilee will forever be grateful for George. He gently rubs at the base of her skull, working his fingers into the tense muscles, “You can, Kei. It’s not beyond repair. You’re strong. You can.” 


	16. Has to. Must. Will.

A bull appears in his sitting room. Causes him to spill hot tea all over his lap. That foul-mouthed, raging bull has the audacity to get in his face, to yell at him, “You’re a foul git, Malfoy! What the hell did you do to her?”

“What the hell are you talking about, Weasley?”

George pulls away, does a wild spin of the room, and then charges at him again, “Keilee! I don’t know what the fuck you’ve done, but you’ve worked her into a right state! What did I tell you? Did you hear anything I said? She’s sick! You’re making it worse! Whatever game you think you’re playing with her, stop!”

“Careful,” Malfoy rips George’s fist from his shirt, straightens it, lounges lazily against the couch. He allows his face to smooth out into a look of utter indifference, kicking his feet out, crossing his ankles. “Someone might get the wrong idea.”

“Fuck you!” George froths. “What did you do?”

Draco weighs his options carefully, enjoying the redness of George’s face, the way his veins throb, the way his knuckles turn white. He could tell the truth, potentially make things so much worse, but at least this cruel, punishing weight would be off his chest. Lying would be easier, less magnetizing, but the idea of it feels like razor blades in his throat.

“I cared,” he drawls, heaving a sigh, the truth not making him feel any better. “I did what you said, and she didn’t want it. Yelled in my face about it.” Draco tilts his head, showing off the thin pink lines across his cheek. “Attacked me.”

This confession seems to knock George sideways. His defensive stance slackens, like all the fight has just drained from him. He tugs his lips as a thousand questions race across his brows, “You must’ve done something. Keilee doesn’t do this.”

“Are you sure?” Draco counters. “She seems stubbornly committed to being miserable. This tantrum she’s having is just another part of that.”

“This isn’t a tantrum. She’s – ” George throws himself into the chair opposite Draco, helping himself to the decanter without asking. “It isn’t a tantrum.”

Draco motions for a glass, offering it to George, who refuses, choosing instead to drink straight from the crystal, “If not a tantrum, what?”

“I need you to walk me through what’s happened.”

“Answer the question first.”

George grits his teeth, shaking away whatever cutting comment he had, deflating once again, “I can’t until I know.”

Knowing there’s likely only so far he’ll be able to push his luck tonight, Draco complies. He walks George through the last few weeks in excoriating detail. His self-hatred comes back full force as he hears himself explaining what he did, what he allowed his father to do. Draco feels physically ill, his skin burning, brain pounding against his skull as the anger flashes across George’s face. He mildly wishes the man would get up, throw him into something, drive those tensed knuckles into his face over and over and over.

For a long time after Draco shuts up, George just sits there, staring down at the mostly empty decanter. This silence is the worst kind. He knows there’s a fight going on inside the other man, doesn’t even need to see his face to know. It’s in his breath, in his shoulders, in the fucking air. That itch comes back, prickling under his shirtsleeve. He twitches, tries to ignore it, ignore the way it only raises in pitch and intensity the longer the silence stretches on. He’s going to lose his fucking mind.

“So?”

George startles as if he’s forgotten Draco is even in the room. “I guess I didn’t realize how bad it’d gotten.” Their eyes connect, George’s so incredibly devastated, “I should’ve been around more.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She wouldn’t – ”

A switch flips, “I don’t care what _she_ wants! Obviously, she can’t help herself anymore, so I don’t care. I don’t care if she’ll hate you forever; I don’t.” Draco heaves a sigh, calms himself by tugging at the roots of his hair, the pain bringing him back. He chokes on a breath, not wanting to break, but she wouldn’t hear it, won’t see it, and he just needs somebody, anybody, to listen. “You can’t even begin to imagine – ”

“I can.” George cuts in, a soft knowing taking over the despair. “Believe me; I can. She can’t be that for you, Malfoy. She can’t. Don’t make her.”

“She coul – ”

George is up out of his seat, “She can’t! She can’t! She can’t!” At some point, it seems like the words aren’t directed at Draco any longer, as if George is reminding himself. After another few seconds of incessant yelling, George once again settles himself. “She just can’t.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because it’s her vice, her favorite one. She’ll leech all your pain; make it hers. It’s – ” he shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “It’s how she copes.”

Draco lets out a huff, “It sounds like an awful coping mechanism.”

“It is. It’s the worst kind. She doesn’t deserve to be miserable, but it’s comfortable to her, what she’s used to. Do you still care?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. It flies out of him like some long trapped animal. He’s never admitted it aloud, not even to himself. “Yes.”

“Then don’t do that to her.”

“What if I can’t help it?”

George frowns, “You have to. If you care, you have to.”

“It hurts. It’s driving me fucking insane.” Draco grits out, more to himself than George. He suddenly realizes how tense he is, how tense he’s been since their conversation on the porch. It’s not even caring. It’s this intense need for her to just be here. He doesn’t need her to like him, doesn’t need her to stop hating; she just has to be here. He’s fixated. “Is she okay?”

“No, but she’s alive and not physically hurt.” There’s silence for a moment, then, “Why?”

Draco doesn’t need to ask for clarification, knows George isn’t asking about why he wanted to know. This is a different why, a deeper one. “I don’t know. I don’t even like her that much; most of the time, I find her insufferable. I just – it hurts less when she’s here.”

“Figure it out, the why. It can’t be for control. You can’t control people.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes, “I’m not an idiot, Weasley.”

“Pain turns people into idiots, makes them do and say and think and feel things they never would’ve without it. Just figure it out, and don’t make her into something she can’t be. You’ve known her long enough…there could never be enough trust, enough of what you’d need, for her to be that for you.”

“Distraction,” Draco says absently.

“From what?”

Draco gestures around the room, to himself, “Just a distraction.”

“Deal with it,” George stands, slaps his thighs, “because if she shows up at my place again like she was last night, like I’ve seen her over this week, you’ll have more to worry about than rouge Death Eaters.”

As George turns to leave, Draco stumbles, nearly tripping over the coffee table, “Is she coming back?”

“You’re being awfully selfish, Malfoy.”

“I need to know.”

There’s a long pause, George’s back to him. For a few fleeting seconds, Draco thinks he’s going to leave without answering; the panic begins to course through him. This stupid, useless, fight or flight response that seems to be making itself at home inside of him. Draco wants to carve it out, has tried, but somehow no matter what he does, it keeps growing, getting worse, taking over.

“Yeah.” The sudden sound causes Draco to jump, his eyes searing into the back of George’s head as he nods, “She’s coming back.”

~~~~~

Draco destroys himself. Panics. Tries to figure out why. Can’t. Bleeds through his shirt. How long could it possibly take George to Apparate, get Keilee, and come back? More panic. More searching. More wracking his brain and pulling his hair and digging his nails into already tortured skin. Another new shirt.

Why all of a sudden does she matter so fucking much? How long has this been going on? Arguing with himself, trying to pin down something that’s changed. Why? How? When? This is nonsense. He knew she’d cause problems; find some way to rip his life apart. Hatred swells up into the panic, a welcomed relief. Yet, he still finds an odd sense of calm or relief when he hears that static rip that comes with Apparition. Still finds himself headed to the porch, feet moving too quickly for it to be casual. Still heaves a sigh of relief when he sees her leaning against the porch railing, cigarette between her lips.

“You’re back,” he breathes out, letting himself sink into the comfortable numbness that comes with knowing she’s here. Pathetic.

Keilee arches an eyebrow, takes a drag, talks through the exhaled smoke, “Looks like it.”

“Are you staying?” He tries to sound casual, knows it comes out as more of a plea. Hates how weak he is. How he’s living up to his father’s expectation.

She shrugs, eyes fixed at the ground, “George says it makes you nutty when I’m away.”

Draco prickles, a sudden flash of hatred for the redheaded weasel ripping through him. What gives George the right to go spouting nonsense, to share his interpretation of their conversation with her? He sneers, balling his fist up by his side, “Does everyone in your life just tell you what you’d like to hear?”

“What I’d like to hear?” The cigarette falls from Keilee’s fingers, rolling across the porch, leaving little sparks of light in its wake. “You think I _wanted_ to hear that you’ve got some sick attachment to me? You think I want to hear that the person I hate most in this life has decided he _needs me_?”

“I don’t need you!” Draco snaps.

Keilee shakes her head, scoffs, “That’s not what George said.”

“George doesn’t know anything.”

“I’ve got a tip for you, Mr. Malfoy, when making friends, look outside my social circle.”

Draco sneers at her, now believing the sickly panic would be better than having to deal with her condescending tone. George was wrong. She’s not sick, not some crippled, scared, lost little girl. She’s vicious and a liar. “I don’t want your precious friends.”

“Then what do you want?” Her lips purse, fixing him with a fiery look. Something in her eyes says this is his chance, a rare one, to really tell her.

He lets out a breath, “A cigarette, for starters.”

Keilee obliges, handing the packet over without argument. She watches him, head cocked to the side, a strange look on her face, as he smokes. Draco risks making eye contact, enjoying the way Keilee’s eyelashes gently flutter, enjoying that she doesn’t look away, that she allows him to hold her there.

“Anything else?”

Draco releases a sound from the back of his throat, a cross between a laugh and a grunt, “Just don’t leave again, okay?”

“Going to say please again?” She taunts.

“Okay?”

“Whatever,” Keilee brushes it away with a flick of her wrist. “Just stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to eat me or something, it’s unsettling.” She shakes her head, letting out an angry little huff. “I still hate you. I’m not staying for you. I don’t care if my leaving makes you want to pitch yourself off a cliff or dance a jig or whatever. I’m staying for me. I have to finish this.”

Draco’s eyes narrow, “This?”

“My mission. Merlin, you have gone nutty.” She rubs at her eyes, letting out a shaky breath, eyebrows scrunching together like she’s fighting herself. Keilee pulls out another cigarette, lights it up, offering the pack to Draco. He takes one, wanting something to do with his hands…with his mouth. “I’m supposed to tell you things…George said it would help. I don’t want to.”

“So don’t.”

Keilee groans, “He’s going to follow up. He gave me an ultimatum. The other option is worse.”

“Well,” Draco makes a grand gesture with his hand, leaning lazily against one of the porch’s support beams.

“I don’t like you.”

“That’s been established.”

Keilee rolls her eyes at him, kicking her feet out in front of her, “Will you shut up and let me say this?” She waits for him to agree. “I don’t like you. I don’t ever expect I will, but this is the situation. George thinks I’ll keep on destroying myself if I don’t accept that, so I’m accepting the situation. I’m here. You’re here, and somehow I’m going to have to figure out how to deal with that.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“It isn’t. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be spending time with you. I don’t want to have to see your stupid face and hear your stupid voice. But – ”

“It’s the situation.” Draco finishes her sentence for her, their eyes locking again. “So what are we going to do about it?”

“There isn’t a we here,” Keilee snaps back.

Rolling his eyes, Draco chuckles, taking a step towards her, “I’m here. You’re here. We become automatic. Whether you like it or not, _we’re_ trying to keep me alive; we’re trying to find the Time Turner. _We’re_ dealing with each other. So, _we_ have to figure out how to make those things happen so that there can once again be Draco and Keilee.”

“Don’t pretend you’re fine with all of this.”

“I’m not the one who hates you.”

She shoots him an angry look, “Well, you certainly don’t like me.”

“You make it awfully hard,” Draco grins at her, laughing lightly at the sourpuss look she’s wearing.

“One of my special talents.”

And he laughs. He laughs because, as silly as it may seem, he truly believes they’ve made a breakthrough. Maybe not a large one, maybe not one that will last, but a tiny fissure in the infinitely thick wall standing between them.

~~~~~

Draco lets her sleep in. Let’s her totter into the dining room, sink into a chair, and enjoy her breakfast. He stays silent, lets her have her peace until the very last drop of coffee is drained from her cup, until she pushes her plate away. He’s unsure how to navigate this, having usually not had his enemies living within his home. He’ll figure it out, though, thinks for Keilee’s sake…maybe for his own neck’s sake; he’s got to.

“There are plants that need harvesting. Would you like to help?”

She arches an eyebrow, folding down the copy of _The Prophet_ she’s been pretending to read, “You’d like help with the gardening?”

“If you’d like to help,” he answers delicately, flicking his eyes to her hand. Keilee’s nails are tinged blue. “Not a demand, though.”

“No, we’ve established you don’t get to make demands.” She follows his gaze, quickly sweeping her hand off the table, tucking it under her. “I need to change.”

He nods, trying not to dwell on how forced their conversation feels, not think about how wonderful it would feel to offer back some snarky, throw away response, “I’ll wait.”

Draco watches her, sunk elbow deep in sandy soil, really tries to see Keilee. He’s still trying to piece together that feeling of panic, and this seems to be as good a place as any to start. So he watches her, sees her for perhaps the first time in his entire life. Sees the gentle curve of her lips, the sharp slope of her nose, now smudged with dirt, the light brown freckles scattered across her cheeks. Her eyes, always so one dimensional and cold to him, shimmer in the sunlight, a thousand different shades of blue all swirling together into deep pools of sparkling seawater. The wind picks up strands of her hair, like fire dancing before his eyes. Draco locks in on how the gentle curls frame her face, how they fall over the milky skin of her neck, still splotched with ugly purple. Draco watches her move, the gentle ripple of muscle under snow-white, watches how sure she is with her digging, the gentle way she handles leaves and flowers she probably doesn’t even know the name of. Listens to her breath, slow and even. Listens to how she hums to herself, songs he can’t place, some feeling devastatingly familiar, causing an ache deep in his chest.

Keilee is stunning, and it’s a realization that sends his stomach to his toes.

“Okay over there? Need me to sew back on a finger?”

He doesn’t realize he physically jolted with the realization until he hears her voice, notices that he’s on his butt, lips tugged up as if he’s just been bitten. “Fine. All limbs attached.”

“You sure?” Keilee stands, dusting her butt off, toeing his arm with her boot. “You’re bleeding.”

Draco shifts his gaze, staring down at the sticky red stain slowly bleeding its way down his shirtsleeve; “Cut myself cleaning up your destruction.”

“I wondered who did that,” she remarks, shrugging before going back to her work. “I could heal it for you, if you’d like.”

Her tone almost has him saying yes, that delicate, unthreatening offer. But that would ruin everything. No one can know. Even he doesn’t know, not the full extent, refuses to look, doesn’t want to. Whatever it looks like, however mangled, it won’t change what’s under it. He knows. It’s all he’d be able to see, so he doesn’t look. Just destroys and destroys and destroys until the need is satiated and then does it some more. “I can do it myself.”

“Okay.” She doesn’t sound like she believes him.

“You’re fingers were blue.” He blurts it out, not even sure where the thought came from. Regrets it instantly as he sees her jerk, going stiff, hand buried deep in roots. “Uh – ”

“Maybe if your house wasn’t so fucking cold.” She grits out, ending further discussion.

Draco keeps his mouth shut for the rest of the afternoon. His mind drifts to Keilee, pulling up those harsh images of deep purple on cream. He imagines pushing his thumb into them, hearing the breath escape her, seeing the flash of pain in her eyes. The thoughts make him burn, thick bile building up in his throat, making it hard to swallow. A sickly kind of venom fills his mouth. The need to shower overtakes him, to scrub and scrub and scrub until this feeling leaves him. He puts more focus into his work, chasing the insignificant redhead from his mind. Thinks of anything and everything but her, going through charts of runes and alchemy symbols, naming every London township, going through the healing properties of every plant he can think of, counting the little stars the prickle up behind his eyes when he blinks. Not her. Anything but her.

“I think maybe you should have a nap, Mr. Malfoy,” she’s standing over him, shadow darkening the space where he sits, blinking down at the hole in the earth, now much larger and deeper than he needed it to be. “You look ill.”

He shakes his head, trying to recall where he was and how long he sat there digging deeper and deeper into the dirt. Purple on cream. “I’m fine.”

“Well,” Keilee raises her eyebrows, frowning slightly as her hands softly slap against her thighs, “I’m tired of doing this, so I’m going inside. Enjoy digging your way to China.”

“What?”

“It’s a muggle saying,” she shakes her head, backing towards the door. “Never mind.”

Draco waits to hear the door close before letting out a growl. Get it together. This is ridiculous—these thoughts, her, this uneasiness that seems to be clinging to him. The thoughts are like scratching an itch, he wants to, wants to so badly, but it makes him feel hot, sticky, so incredibly _dirty_. It’s like falling into a fire, a fire he can’t decide if he enjoys the warmth of or if he’s just a glutton for pain. Draco angles his head towards his chest, talking to the fabric there as if that’s going to help, “Having her here is supposed to make this better. Why aren’t you better?”

It’s like another person has entered him. Draco is still there, in control for the most part, but then this other thing comes into him, and he’s completely losing it. Whatever it is, this thing that seems more than willing to push Draco completely out of the driver's seat and take over has to go. He’s got to get a handle on this. Somehow, someway. This spiraling, haphazard, destructive way of being is going to land him in trouble. It’s going to break down what semblance of a normal life he’s created. It has to end. Draco has to take back control. Has to. Must. Will.


	17. Alone

_Keilee,_

_People change, they grow, they learn from their mistakes. I know what’s happened between you and Draco, but it’s the past, Kei. Look beyond. You can’t keep living that day over and over. It’ll kill you – it is killing you. I’m not asking you to forget, no one could ever forget, I’m asking you to be open. Open to growth, to how beautiful life can be._

_Fred once told me he fell in love with the sunbeams he saw coming from you…that everyone felt with you around. Don’t lose the sun. Don’t become bitter._

_Draco is stuck too. He’s fighting a similar fight. You can help each other if you stay open. Neither one of you is perfect._

_We love you Kei and know the tasks you’ve been given haven’t been easy. Don’t grow hard because of it._

_~ George_

Keilee balls up the letter, throws it across the room, and lets out a long groan. She rubs at her eyes, mumbling to herself. All right Kei, this is it. It’s pull yourself up by the bootstraps time. Do or die. Get up. Stop avoiding the mirror. Just look at the damage. Can’t be that bad. Brave face. Smile. Pretend you’re not waking up in Draco fucking Malfoy’s house. Don’t think about him. Not right now. Not ever.

She spends a good part of the morning coaching herself; stand, sit, eat, nod. She doesn’t look at him, makes a point to not watch as the muscles of his neck constrict when he swallows. Makes a point to not notice how the sea breeze, so chilly now, tosses his hair around his face. When did he stop wearing it slicked back? Is it as soft as it looks? Makes a point to not stare into his eyes, deep pools of thundercloud grey mystery, his pupils pulsing, hypnotizing. Makes a point not to stare as he stands, muscles rippling under the thin shirt fabric, a dazzling white sliver of his lower stomach prominently displayed.

It’s like he’s toying with her. Does he know? No, no way he could. She’s not given any indication. Has she?

As the morning bleeds into afternoon, Keilee flies through every interaction they’ve had since she returned from George’s. George! Did he tell? He wouldn’t. He told her Malfoy’s thing. They aren’t friends. Would he? No. Never.

Drives herself into a complete fit by dinner and has to answer his stupid question; “Feeling alright?”

Why does he care? What does he want? Spends the rest of the night under a freezing jet of water. Stop thinking about it. Those eyes stare back at her behind shut eyelids, his lips tugging into a snarl. She can feel his strength, his fingers fisting the front of her jumper, curling around – Keilee flies out of bed, purposely running her foot into the edge of the bed. The sharp bite clears her head fully. Fuck.

She’s supposed to hate him. _Does_ hate him. So why this? Keilee paces, trying to think it out objectively. Objectively, Malfoy isn’t ugly. Objectively he might even be above mildly attractive. Made true by the countless girls who practically threw themselves at him during school. Objectively he’s intelligent. Third in the class is nothing to downplay. Objectively…Keilee hits a roadblock. There’s nothing else to him. Draco is the quintessential aristocrat. Pompous, well-spoken and dressed. Intelligent. Political.

Those dark eyes, pupils blown out with rage, flash as she blinks. Her stomach does a little flip. The rage. That raw emotion. Something he can’t hide. The mild dislike he can write off his face, but that intense anger…her stomach flips again.

“Great,” Keilee grumbles, tugging at her hair as she slides down the wall. Why is it so fucking hot in here? “I can’t stop thinking about his fucking hands all over me because there’s a mild chance he could kill me.” Could and didn’t. Hasn’t.

Speaking it aloud sends a jolt of electricity coursing low through her body, makes her want to vomit, spoon her brains out, peel her skin off. “Fucking ridiculous. Get it together, Kei.”

She finds him already on the porch – why is he always just there? – lounging over the railing, a bottle dangling loosely from his grip.

“Need a cigarette?”

Draco startles, fumbles for the bottle, an oddly humanizing thing. Keilee busies herself with lighting her own smoke, not watching the way his fingers curl around the glass neck. He lets out a small chuckle as she hands over the pack, “Should probably just start buying my own.”

“Giving in?”

He shrugs, “Not for the first time.”

“Who would’ve known, Malfoy has vices.”

He snorts, upper lip curling, “You don’t have a monopoly, Holloway.”

“Not yet,” she ashes her smoke into the slowly dying hydrangeas, “George says I should apologize for scratching you, so, sorry for your face.”

“Sorry for your lip.”

His apology is out of character and it takes Keilee a second to get her brain and mouth into working order, “You didn’t do it.”

“Wouldn’t have been down there if I hadn’t exploded at you.”

“Wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t attacked you.”

Draco lets out a throaty laugh, shaking his head, “Is that what we’re doing? Playing whose fault is it? It’s my father’s fault. There.”

“I called him a cunt. I thought he was you.”

Another one of those half chuckles, “I’m sure he’s been called worse.”

“I wish it has been you,” she grumbles.

Draco steps away from the railing, holding his arms wide, “Well, go ahead. One time offer.”

Keilee notices how lovely he looks in blue, how it brings out flecks of the same color in his eyes she always saw as so boringly grey, and has to bite into her lip to chase the thought away, “Cunt.”

He gives her a small grin, the corners of his lips barely twitching up. Stop looking at his fucking mouth! “Satisfied?”

She shrugs, “Not really.”

A strand of hair falls in front of Draco’s face. Keilee’s hand lifts as if thinking on its own. Her fingers buzz with electricity, itching with it. She snatches it out of the air, praying to anyone that’s listening for him to not have noticed. Coughs, “I should go to bed.”

“Bored of me already?”

Suddenly he’s close…too close. Keilee can smell the sharp bite of whiskey on his breath; feel it fan warmth over her lips. She can hear his heart thundering away in his chest. Can smell the last dusting of his cologne, the tones of teakwood and something smoky-sweet assaulting her senses. She takes an unsteady step backward, clutching onto the doorknob to keep her butt from biting into the wood of the porch.

“I just – ” she swallows hard, feeling her cheeks burn. “I need to go to sleep.”

There’s nothing else for it. Keilee goes for the bottle.

She must’ve been making too much noise because Malfoy pushes his way into the room just as she makes a mad dash for the toilet. Keilee sends the door slamming shut, collecting her hair and letting the liquid make its way out of her. He kicks at the door, the sounds echoing across the tiles, but doesn’t open it. Keilee sees a shadow pass under the door, his voice floating to her through the wood.

“You need help, Kei.”

Keilee wipes at her mouth, leaning back against the side of the clawfoot tub, “Sod off, Malfoy. Why are you even here?”

“It sounded like you were going to come through the ceiling.”

“I’ll shut up. Go away.”

“I can’t do that. Something has to be done. You can’t keep on like this.”

“What does it matter to you? I haven’t asked for your help. I haven’t asked for anyone’s help. I can handle it alone. Haven’t you got other things to do? Why are you here?”

“Because I care, okay? And you can save your lecture, I already know you don’t want me to and it’s ludicrous and a waste of time and I have no right, but I do. I can’t stop it, believe me, I’ve tried, my god I’ve tried, but I care. Let me help you. It’s my help or St. Mungo’s. George and I have already discussed it.”

Keilee yanks the door open, Malfoy nearly falling out onto the tiled floor, “Well I guess you and George have it all sorted then. Lock me up and throw away the key, right?”

“That’s not – ”

She’s storming around the room, her fingers itching, looking desperately for anything to pick up and toss at his sodding head. What do they know? Nothing. Nothing is the answer. Neither one of them knows a goddamn thing about what she needs.

The sentiment spills from her lungs, “That is it! Everyone else got their time! Everyone else got to heal in the way they needed! But suddenly it’s me and my coping mechanisms aren’t what people want and I’m not healing fast enough. So throw me away! Did you even think about what that would do? You claim to care so fucking much, so tell me, have you ever thought what locking me up and throwing away the key would do!”

“Wha – ”

“Shut up, I’m not finished!” Keilee thunders, charging at him; getting right down in his face, pleased that for once she’s doing the looming. “Sure, maybe I’m completely off my rocker but my opinion still matters.”

“Keilee!” Draco pulls himself up, grabbing her roughly by the shoulders, shoving her up against the bathroom wall; there’s peppermint on his breath. “I’m asking – what would it do? Why is getting help so bloody difficult for you?”

She lets out a choked sob, hadn’t even realized she’d started crying until it caught up in her throat, “I don’t want the white walls! I don’t want that sad, pathetic I feel sorry for you smile! I don’t want to be in that room alone! I don’t want to be alone!”

Draco jerks, letting go of her as if the words sent a shock through him. He stares back at her, blinking stupidly, a fist tangled up in his snowy white hair, “Alone? You don’t want to be alone? Keilee Holloway, who pushes away all offers of friendship from anyone outside of her stupid little circle, is afraid of being alone?”

“Fuck you. Just forget it.”

“No,” Draco fumbles forward, grabbing her by the wrist as she tries to make her escape. “No. I didn’t – I just meant, that if you don’t want to be alone you have to learn to let people in.”

Keilee hiccups, staring up at him through a blurry film of tears. He’s beautiful even in the harsh white lighting of the loo. Her heart aches. “I – I don’t – I don’t think I know how.”

She collapses against his chest.


	18. Pretending

She cries and cries, tears soaking through the front of his shirt, her body wracked with sobs. Unused to, but not completely uncomfortable with the closeness, Draco holds her. Holds her and whispers whatever words come to mind, regardless of the consequences, regardless of what she’ll think in the morning when her haze of drunkenness and emotion wears off. He holds her until she stops shaking. Holds her until her breath evens out. Holds her.

Draco drowns in the way she feels pressed up against him; fragile. Drowns in her scent; vanilla and something herbal…intoxicating. Drowns in the sparks that jump through his fingertips as he strokes her hair, her dampened cheeks, her. He didn’t realize he needed this until he had it. Didn’t realize how much he needed to hold her, to have her this close to him. It’s almost physically painful when she peels herself off him. The air feels empty and stale without her there filling it with her sweet scent, he feels too light without her weight against him.

“Sorry,” and it breaks something inside him that the first word out of her mouth is an apology.

He takes the risk, inching forward, hooking a finger under her chin, gently tipping her head up, their eyes meeting. Keilee could ask Draco to pull his heart out and hand it to her right now and he’d do it. The feeling is foreign and makes his nose crinkle, makes him want to scrub at his skin again, but there’s no denying it. Right now, with her pupils blown out, her hair disheveled, her sweater sliding off her shoulder to expose the skin, her lips slightly parted, he’d give her anything she asked for.

“Don’t ever apologize for that,” he cushions each word, staring her down, “Ever.”

Keilee swallows hard, her bottom lip quivering, tongue flicking out to slick it, “You should go.”

Draco lets out a slow breath, taking a step away from her. Whatever energy was building up between them dissipates quickly, leaving him feeling slightly lightheaded, “If that’s what you want.”

Another hard swallow. Keilee totters on her toes, swaying gently back and forth. Her eyes leave his for a second, settling on his lips before snapping back up, “I think it’s best.”

“Can I ask a question before I go?” Draco moves to the main doors, pausing with his back to her.

“If you have to.”

He really is pushing his luck. He should take his question and shove it back down his throat. This is a dangerous game. Draco isn’t even sure he wants her answer, isn’t even sure what he’ll do with whatever information she gives him. She’s waiting though and he’s been quiet for too long.

Draco lets out a long breath, knowing this may change everything but still needing to know…consequences be damned, “How long are we going to keep pretending?”

He doesn’t miss the little hitch in her breath, doesn’t miss the way it makes his heart skip a beat, doesn’t miss the hot flush that runs through him. He shouldn’t be doing this. He’ll hate himself for it later, he’s certain of it. After what feels like hours, he turns slightly, glancing over his shoulder at her.

Keilee’s eyes meet his for a fraction of a second, “For however long it takes.”

~~~~~

He should be sleeping. He should be curled up in his bed twisted up in dark dreams. He should be doing anything but this. This listening that’s become more of an addiction than a habit. Draco reasons that he’s doing it for her. To make sure someone is there if she breaks into some kind of fit or if she tries to slip down to the liquor cabinet.

Draco plays Keilee’s answer over and over in his head. What the hell had she meant? Did she even understand what he was referring to? Did he misread their interaction in the bathroom? He digs his nails into the already abused flesh of his arm, knowing they’ll be blood, knowing it doesn’t achieve anything and yet needing it. He’s being foolish. She’d never – she hates him. So why was he so certain? So certain she was going to –

The doorknob behind him turns. Draco jumps, throwing himself away from the dark oak doors. The light streaming in through the window at the end of the hall tells him it’s morning. He’d sat outside her door all night. Keilee pushes out into the hallway before he has the chance to make a proper escape. She’s going to know. He’s still in his clothes from last night.

Her eyes sweep over him, settling on his hand, “Maybe I’m not the only one who needs help.”

She disappears downstairs. Draco glances down at his fingers, flipping his hand over, the palm is coating in dried blood. Shit.

After a shower and a good bit of pacing to get himself together, Draco stops putting off the inevitable. He can’t avoid her forever. Just go downstairs. Just eat breakfast. Don’t bring anything up unless she does. Don’t answer any questions about the blood.

Surprisingly, Keilee seems content to pretend like last night and this morning never happened. He was expecting her to pry and feels a bit off-kilter now that he’s sat across the table from her, watching as she flips through the morning issue of _The Prophet_. Draco finds the silence unsettling, almost wishing she’d start bombarding him with questions.

As the silence rises to a fever pitch, Draco clears his throat, “I’m going to be preparing the plants we picked today. You could sit with me.”

“Sit with you? Why would I want to do that?”

“I just – you said you didn’t want to be alone.”

Keilee lets out a scoff, rolling her eyes, “See, here’s what we’re not going to do. You’re not going to start treating me like I’m some kind of breakable china. You’re not going to start offering to spend time with me out of some sick obligation you’ve deluded yourself into thinking you have. I don’t want that. I’m not going to start following you around like some kind of puppy desperate for attention.”

“No, you’re more of a cat than a puppy,” Draco grins.

“What?”

“Will you sit with me today?” Draco repeats, hoping catching her off guard may change her answer. “I’d appreciate the company.”

Keilee heaves a sigh, tossing the paper away from her, “Fine, I’ll join you while you do your stupid chemistry experiments.”

“Alchemy.”

She gives him another eye roll and Draco has to bite into his lip to keep from grinning, that irritating little crinkle of her nose is bordering on adorable, “Same thing.”

Draco sets Keilee up with a stool at the end of his workbench. She sits cross-legged, her head cocked off to the side, hair falling down over her shoulder. He’s acutely aware of the way her eyes follow his every move. He sets up his things, gathering the various herbs and flowers he plans on working with today, giving Keilee a warning look as she reaches out to take one of his paring knives. “Watch, not touch.”

Keilee sticks her tongue out at him, rolling her eyes into the back of her head, “Sorry dad.” She withdrawals her hand nonetheless.

Draco’s cheeks burn and he turns away to fiddle with a few glass vials to hide it from her. Merlin, she’s got him blushing now. Gross.

“Can I smoke in here?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t,” Draco slides the blunt side of his knife down a sprig of wormwood, collecting the congealed juice into a small vial, “But I know you won’t listen. Open a window.”

The late November chill sweeps through the room, the salty air mixing in with the ashy fumes of Keilee’s cigarette. He watches the way her cheeks hollow out, the way she lets the smoke curl out between the small o formed at the middle of her lips. Keilee smokes in a rhythm; in, hold, out in little puffs. Again and again. Draco finds himself hypnotized by the action, how willingly she fills herself with toxic fumes, how delicately she lets them escape her.

“Yes?”

He’s been staring. Draco clears his throat, wiping a gloved hand across his forehead, “Can I have a drag?”

“I can do you one better,” Keilee goes for her pack.

Draco doesn’t know why he’s doing it, doesn’t know what’s come over him, but he’s no longer in control of his motions. Can’t stop his eyes locking with hers. Can’t stop himself tugging his glove off. Can’t yank his hand back as it reaches towards her. Can’t stop himself from plucking the smoking stick from between her lips. Can’t do anything to keep his lips from falling into the same indent hers created. Draco sucks in the smoke, suddenly so sweetly laced with vanilla, letting his head buzz with it for a second.

“You’ve fucking losing it, Malfoy,” Keilee shakes her head, taking the cigarette back from him. She stares down at it for a second, before slipping it back between her own lips. “It’s mildly entertaining.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying my mental breakdown.”

“So you have snapped.”

Draco shakes his head, trying to refocus on his work, “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Whatever you say,” Keilee answers, raising her hands in surrender.

He tries desperately to return to his work, to shake off her following stare. Draco cuts and chops, often shoving pieces aside that he’s managed to butcher along the way. Keilee seems bored with his back turned to her and snatches a collection of metal off a shelf. He can hear her muttering under her breath and a second later a sound like static erupts through the air. Again and again. Another rhythmic pattern, this one not as delicious as her little puffs of smoke.

He tries to ignore it, tries to push that agitating crack from his mind, but it’s boring a hole through his head, making it impossible to concentrate. “Can you stop that? Whatever it is you’re doing. I can’t bloody concentrate.”

Keilee lets out a breathy laugh and Draco’s heart gives a painful stutter. That laugh. Quite honestly he thought he’d never hear it again. It’s not exactly the same as that full-bellied ring he’d heard so many weeks ago – months now maybe, he’s losing track of time – but it’s nearly there. It makes his head swim. A low itch grows at the base of his chest…another pitiful addiction to add to his list.

“What’s one thing you dislike about me?” Keilee questions innocently.

The question sends Draco tipping back against his workbench. What the hell is she getting at here? Is she trying to bait him? She can’t honestly want him to start naming off traits he dislikes. “I – what?” As a kind of distraction, a way to buy time, Draco takes the metal pieces from Keilee, stopping the unnecessary noise, burying them deep in his trouser pockets. “That wretched sound you were making.”

“Don’t like that one,” she answers with a shake of her head. “Try again.”

“That,” Draco snaps back, spinning towards her. “That matter of fact little quip you do.” He takes a calculated step in her direction. “How you pry – ” another step “– and poke – ” another. He’s standing right on top of her, Keilee’s breath dusting against his nose and lips. “– until you get the answer you want. It’s infuriating. It doesn’t always have to be more than what it is.”

Keilee blinks up at him, letting a quivering breath escape her. Her eyes flick to where Draco’s hand rests on her shoulder. He hadn’t even noticed he was touching her, the soft fabric of her jumper warming his hand. “I’m going to start on lunch.”

“Pym can – ” but she’s already slipped from the stool, the door clicking shut. These incessantly tumultuous, unwelcomed feelings will be the death of him. _She’ll_ be the death of him. At least the passing will be blissful.


	19. Dislike

Despite Draco’s new found obsession with needing to be in her space, Keilee continues with their routine. Breakfast, a few hours in the workshop, lunch, more work until the sun goes down. Mostly she watches, entranced by how delicately he handles flowers. How sure he is of every movement. She watches the way his fingers flex, the way his veins ripple.

The whole situation is foreign to her. Keilee never expected this subtle air of comfortability to settle over them. She never expected to be relaxed around Draco Malfoy. A part of her brain screams to end this, end the nonsense; that letting her guard down is dangerous. Keilee’s curiosity wins out though. Now that she’s seen this delicate side of him, a calm she’s never experienced, she needs more of it.

They don’t usually talk. Keilee will occasionally ask about a strange instrument or a plant she doesn’t recognize. Draco always answers, sometimes going into deep explanation, putting aside his work to stand closer to her as she twists a bit of metal or stem in her fingers. Other times his answers are short and snipped as if she’s interrupted him in the middle of coming up with the cure for death.

“You can’t mix those,” there’s a jolt of electricity as she reaches out, pressing her fingertips gently into his arm.

“What?” Draco snaps back, halting his work, looking down at the plants with a prominent crinkle of his brow.

Keilee pulls her hand away, tucking it safely under her thigh. She shouldn’t have reached out. Since that night in the bathroom when she’d cried into his chest, Keilee’s been curious about the effect it had on her. She’d never felt so at peace. It was different from even when Fred held her. For those moments, Keilee still isn’t sure how long they had stood there; she’d felt like they were the only two people in the whole world. Instead of that making her ache with loneliness, it just felt blissfully easy. She’s felt a longing to get any semblance of that feeling since.

It’s a dangerous feeling. A forbidden feeling.

Keilee nibbles at her lip, eyes flying around the room, telling herself looking at him would send her shaky precautions, put in place to forbid another incident like the bathroom, shattering, “Asphodel and Molly. They can’t be mixed.”

“How do you even know that?” Draco growls.

Keilee rolls her eyes, grinning a little, “I was bad at Potions, not Herbology.”

“Herbology hasn’t go – ”

“You’re arguing for argument's sake, Malfoy,” Keilee cuts in.

Draco lets out a huff, discarding his knife and crossing his arms over his chest, “Says the pot to the kettle.”

Keilee giggles at Draco’s use of the muggle idiom. Her cheeks quickly flush as she notices his gaze softening, head tilting lightly to the side as if lost in some kind of daydream. She can’t let him make her feel like that. He is the enemy. Whatever is happening here shouldn’t be. She can’t let it. No matter how deliciously dangerous it may be.

“What’s one thing you dislike about me?” Draco blurts out, falling back to his work. Keilee doesn’t miss his sweeping away of the Molly petals.

“Just one thing?”

“Keilee – ” He warns with a low growl.

She huffs, rolling her eyes. Draco needs to learn to take a joke. Joke? She’s joking with him now? That definitely has to go on the list of things she’s never ever allowing herself to do again.

Clearing her throat to try and dispel the unfamiliar feeling building in it, she allows herself to study him if only for the briefest second, “You’re bitter. Bitter about how the war turned out. Bitter about your life now. Bitter about how your parents led you astray as a child. Bitter that you’ve now got to change your whole way of thinking. Bitter about how people see you, how you know no matter what you do, you’ll never change how they feel about you.”

“I never – ”

“Bitter about having me here. Bitter about whatever it is you think we’re pretending. You’re bitter and it looks nasty on you. Like you’ve bitten into a lemon.”

A wicked look crosses Draco’s face, and that flutter of excitement that comes with the unbridled threat twists in Keilee’s stomach, making her woozy, “I hate that! You don’t know the first thing about me! How can you sit there and shove that down my throat when you have no idea? You ignorant, smartarse – ”

“Bitch?” Keilee cuts him off, arching an eyebrow. She lets out a soft scoff, shaking her head. “You’re so damn predictable, Malfoy. Every time I start to think you’re different, that you’re better than what I thought, you just have to go and prove me wrong. Because if you aren’t hated, if you aren’t raging, you’re terrified someone might see there’s good in you.”

Draco swallows hard, his lips parted in a delicious little o, “You think there’s good in me?”

“Even if I did, you’d try and wreck it,” Keilee’s eyes brush the room, landing on one of the symbols etched in the floor. She slides from the stool, toeing at the mark, “What’s this mean?”

“Copper,” Draco coughs, rubbing angrily at his brow. “It’s the Alchemic symbol for copper.”

“And this one?” Keilee toes another symbol at the tip of the pentagram carved into the floor.

“Gold.”

Keilee nods, squatting down to run her finger along the deep gouge in the ground, enjoying the smooth coolness of it, “I like that one.”

“Me too.” His voice is small, a barely-there whisper and if she hadn’t heard his shoes scuffle she would’ve jumped when his hand slid over hers. He gently guides it over other symbols, murmuring their meanings, why they’re important in Alchemy. Draco’s version of an apology.

Despite herself, Keilee accepts it. The apology and his gentle touch. That feeling of being alone with him settles over her and she drinks it in. Her heart and mind settle, lulled into beautiful calm by the gentle cadence of his voice. It shouldn’t feel this good. She shouldn’t be letting it go this far. But there’s something intoxicating about feeling him there, crouched down next to her, their shoulders knocking. Keilee knows the situation will catch up to her eventually. That it’ll send her into a dizzy panic that chases away all chance of sleep, but right now, she lets it happen.

They spend the rest of the daylight getting to know each other, answering those questions they should’ve asked a long time ago. Favorite authors. Comfort foods. Favorite time of day. Music they enjoy. Favorite subject in school. Fears. Funny little memories.

It humanizes Draco in Keilee’s mind, fleshes him out. In the last tendrils of light, something sparks in Keilee. She sees Draco as more than a murderous Death Eater, as more than a one-dimensional opposing force. She sees his darkness, there’s a lot, Keilee is certain he’ll always be shrouded in shadow, but she also sees a flicker of light. It’s weak and barely there and at times nearly impossible to see, but it’s there.

Her dinner hits the smooth waters of the toilet the second she returns to her room. This afternoon was a mistake. She should’ve taken Draco’s outburst as an excuse to leave, to end their little routine. Why did she entertain his apology? Why did she just throw out his blatant push back, his blatant attempt to shove her out of his life and just throw it away?

Because something is changing. Because she’s been stuck with him and only him for way too fucking long. Because she knows he cares. Because he stood there and let her cry on him and didn’t once try and throw it in her face. Because Draco is so beautifully human and that part of him has begun to burrow its way into her brain and muddy the previous conceptions about him. 

Hate. Hate. Hate. Keilee rolls the word around on a sticky tongue, discovering it no longer feels welcome, no longer feels comfortable. It prickles and scrapes and creates painful little slices, begging to be expelled. Hate. She realizes it's no longer an emotion she feels inherently connected to. Draco’s broken her and the worst part is, she knows, willing to admit it yet or not, that the blame isn’t entirely on him.

That realization burns like fire across her skin.

Despite this, despite every instinct telling her it’s a terrible idea that can only lead to more confusing realizations, she returns to that stool. Day after day. Keilee still has her rules; don’t let him touch you, don’t let him hypnotize you with those eyes; like heavy thunder clouds so full of sadness and secrets, don’t watch the curve of his lips as he talks, don’t watch his hands, don’t think about what it would feel like to explore those lips, what it would feel like to have his hands on her again.

“Do you want to help?”

The question breaks the long comfortable silence and sends Keilee tumbling from her stool. She lets out a squeak as her tailbone bites into the unforgiving floorboards. Draco is by her side in a flash, kneeling down next to her and trying to slip his arms under hers to help her up.

“I’m fine!” Keilee barks, shoving him off of her. Don’t let him touch you.

“Right.” Draco backs off, returning to his workstation. “Can I show you how to do this?”

Keilee eyes him for a second, trying to assess the situation, how much of a threat he poses. For most of the morning, she’s been able to avoid watching him, taking up a particular interest in the lazy flying patterns of the seagulls that don’t seem interested in leaving despite the frigid temperature. She’d let her mind wander a bit, toying with the idea of dislike. It feels better than hate on her tongue, but it’s still too heavy. She avoided going further down this rabbit hole, afraid of what she may find at the end of the tunnel. For now, dislike will do.

“Kei?”

“What?” Her eyes settle on the knife he’s holding out to her. “Oh. Yes. Sure.”

She hates how confident Malfoy is; sidling up behind her and gently taking her hand in his glove-covered one. Has she given him some indication that this is all right? That he’s allowed to just invade her personal space whenever the urge strikes him? She surely hopes not, flicking through her memories, the bathroom flashing before her eyes. That whole damn night had been one mistake after another. She should’ve never been so open with him, never even hinted that she’d trust him with something so intimately secret, should’ve never handed a piece of herself to him so freely.

“– and then just push the flat side of the knife down the root. Gently, you don’t want to tear the flesh – ”

Vivid images jump through Keilee’s mind. Dangerous eyes. Blown out pupils. His hand balled in her sweater, in her hair, around her throat. His lips skimming over the splotched skin of her neck, taking those marks and making them his.

Keilee jerks, the knife tumbling from her hand. A firm grip on her elbow keeps her from meeting the carved-up floor again, “I don’t think I’m feeling well.”

“Kei – ”

“Just let me go,” Keilee pushes at him, trying to force him back away from her. “I just need to go.”

Draco’s fingers dig into her flesh, holding her in place, “What is it you’re so afraid of? Why do you keep running away?”

“Let me go,” she grits out.

“Answer my questions.”

Their eyes lock; Draco’s breath fanning over Keilee’s lips, making her mind fuzzy. Push him away. Push him away and run. Run. Something else twitches inside her, begging for Keilee to just tip up on her toes, to just let their lips brush for a second. She almost complies, letting her eyes flutter shut, letting her body move towards his. But as her nose brushes his, as that first jolt of electricity rips through her, Keilee jumps. She tugs herself free and listens to the first voice, the more rational voice, the voice that reminds her no matter what images flash behind closed eyelids and fly through her brain she can never ever let it happen. Keilee runs.


	20. Same Hell

Draco doesn’t see her for two days. If it weren’t for the gentle sleeping sounds floating through her door, he’d be certain she disappeared again. As day two fades into day three, he grows bold, slipping into her bedroom and standing in a shadowy corner. It’s wrong, and he always feels gross afterward, but he needed more. Needed to physically see that Keilee is still alive, that she hadn’t charmed her room and run off into the night.

Her running is driving him nuts. After the day in his workshop, Draco is certain that the little spark he felt in the bathroom was shared. He should’ve noticed sooner but didn’t want to feed into his own sick, twisted, deluded fantasies. But now there’s no denying it. The whole way Keilee acts around him has changed. She’s somewhat softer and more rigid at the same time as if she’s set some kind of mental rules on how to behave around him. Where she used to latch on to any excuse to fight back, she now falters. Draco’s pushed the boundaries as far as he can; the second it gets too much, too physical, too close to letting reckless desires take over, Keilee flees.

Draco would give up on being close to her, on invading her personal space if it wasn’t for the head-spinningly delicious sparks that wrack through him at even the slightest graze of skin against skin. He’s quite sure he’s going mad.

Keilee stirs in her sleep, and Draco’s heart stops. He never imagined what he’d say, what kind of lame excuse he’d offer up if she ever caught him doing this. Hell, he doesn’t even really know why he’s doing this. He just needed to be closer, that magnetic pull that drives his panic anytime she leaves the house, dragging him through her doors. He bit down the irrational idea to climb into the bed with her, to graze his fingers along the sleepy lines of her face, to teach her it's okay to let him be physically close to her while her rational mind was off in dreamland. Draco realized that would be going too far and opted for the shadowy corner instead.

Draco leaves long before daylight breaks, drowning himself in scalding water and unforgiving nails against already abused skin. He can never do that again.

~~~~~

“Have you seen my copy of The Hobbit?”

Draco jumps. He should’ve put it back. Shouldn’t have even picked it up in the first place. Somehow he felt better with a piece of her in his room. He berated himself for it, tossing the book against the wall, pulling clumps of his hair out, but none of it was enough to make him put it back. He also doesn’t fully understand why he’s about to tell her the truth, but it feels like the right thing to do. It isn’t like she’s going to ask him how he managed to get his hands on the grubby paperback, “I took it.”

“What?” His confession seems to throw Keilee off stride, and he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t pleasing to watch, to know he can still throw her calculating mind for a spin. “You can’t just – ”

He continues despite himself, his addition feeling like a muddled version of his secret-spilling out, “I found myself irrationally curious if they survived the trolls, and it didn’t seem like you were going to read me anymore.”

“It’s mine. You had no ri – ”

“Are there more?”

And it’s near ecstasy to see the way her brows relax, bending from hostility to confusion to pleasant surprise. Draco doesn’t miss the dustings of a smile on Keilee’s lips. It makes his heart hammer painfully fast behind his ribs.

“What?”

“More. Does Bilbo go on more adventures?”

“No.” Keilee must’ve noticed the way his face falls – he’s getting dangerously bad at hiding his facial expressions from her – and she quickly follows it up. “But Frodo, his nephew does. There’s a series called Lord of the Rings – ”

Draco doesn’t wait for further information. Despite not wanting to – the situation too similar to his current one with Keilee – Draco thoroughly enjoyed The Hobbit. “I’d like to read them.”

This time Keilee’s face falls, her lips twitching into a sad little frown, “I don’t own those.”

“Oh well, never mind then,” Draco shrugs, tossing a letter over towards the seat she usually takes. “This came for you. From Potter.”

Keilee greedily snatches the envelope from the table, sliding her finger under the wax seal. A bright smile creeps over her features, and Draco takes a second to marvel at how alive she looks. The word beautiful floats around in his head, but it feels wrong, out of place. He pushes it away, sneering over at the periwinkle parchment.

“What does Saint Potter want?”

She seems unperturbed by his jibe, still smiling to herself, eyes scanning the page a few times, “Harry and Ginny are getting married.”

“Gross.”

“Well, it’s not like you’ll be going,” Keilee snaps back.

“You can’t very well leave me unprotected.”

Keilee rolls her eyes, delicately tucking the invitation back into its envelope, “It's months from now, not till spring. I’m sure this will all be over by then.”

The thought makes Draco’s stomach churn. He’s suddenly not hungry.

~~~~

That stupid scar. That ridiculous white slit now running down over the curve of her bottom lip. Will it be there forever? Will he ever be able to stop flicking his gaze over to it? It’s driving him mad, absolutely loony. And he simultaneously wants to rip it from her face and nip and suck and kiss it until it’s gone, a piece of him instead, and those two conflicting desires are driving him even closer to the physiatrist ward at St. Mungo’s.

He hates himself for wanting her like that; nearly throws himself down the stairs as he imagines what it’d be like to slide his lips over her’s for even a second. Draco is suddenly rushed with relief that she’d pulled away the other day. He’s not sure he could handle the…ramifications of his selfish little desires put into action.

So instead, he continues the routine they’ve created as November bleeds into December. Draco eats with Keilee. Spends nearly all day in his workshop with Keilee; sometimes they talk, shooting lines of questions that mean nothing and everything, at each other. Most times, Keilee just silently watches, sitting on a stool or mindlessly tracing the symbols etched into the floor. They drink in the sitting room, and then Keilee goes to bed. And despite promising himself, it wouldn’t happen again, more nights than not, Draco finds himself hiding in the corner of her bedroom just listening.

This goes on for weeks. Eat. Work. Talk. Drink. Watch. Feel nasty and awful and dirty and like he wants to rip himself into a million pieces. Repeat.

“Tomorrow's Christmas,” Keilee announces as they settle into their respective spots in the sitting room.

Draco nods, wondering quietly if she’s going someplace with this or just felt the need to voice the obvious. 

“I, um – ” Keilee clears her throat, taking a few sips of her drink. “I was thinking that we could, um, we could – ”

“Spit it out, Holloway.”

“I was wondering if maybe you’d like to go out…to dinner…with me. You and I could go eat. For Christmas.”

He has to steady his features, bite back a laugh at how red in the face she’s gone. Draco is quite certain it took everything in Keilee to not just abandon the idea halfway through, and honestly, he’s rather impressed. He would’ve never plucked up the courage to suggest something so – he mulls the thought over in his head for a second, trying to decide what word he’s looking for – relationshipy.

“Never – ”

“You haven’t given me a chance to answer.”

Keilee huffs, “I can tell by your silence it was a mistake to ask.”

“Keilee,” Draco gives her a warning look, “you haven’t let me answer.”

“Well, go on then, spit it out. Tell me I’m ridiculous, and you wouldn’t be caught dea – ”

“I’ll go.”

His answer catches the rest of her ridiculous rant in her throat. Keilee sputters, slumping back against the chair, her eyes wide, lashes fluttering gently, “I’m sorry.”

“I said, I’ll go. I’ll eat dinner with you. On Christmas. In a restaurant. Happy?”

“You – you will?”

Draco chuckles then, her wild confusion drawing a grin from him. Once again, he feels pleased he can still get these reactions, the stunned speechless slack of her jaw, the wide, bewildered eyes as he surprises and changes little bits of how she sees him in her head.

“Do you suddenly not understand English? Sí. J’y vais. Et ibit. Those are the only languages I know, Keilee, so I hope one of them got through.”

She grins at him, her eyes reflecting back a kind of silent pride, a dark kind of admiration he wishes she’d wipe from her face. Draco never wants her to look at him like that. Like he’s something special. Like he can be the reason for her happiness. Like he’s deserving. It makes him sick, yet he still has to force his eyes away, peel them from hers.

“Okay. Tomorrow night at five. I’d like to miss the rush.”

“That’s fine.” Stop looking at me like that. Never look away. That tumultuous wave of feelings ripples through him as she stands, silently slipping from the sitting room. Draco hears her door click shut.

Keilee is still awake when Draco’s feet drag him into her room. He silently praises himself for bringing his cup of tea with him, lifting it in her direction. Keilee shoots him a lazy look, shrugging. “What are you doing here, Malfoy?”

“Pym thought you might like some tea,” he offers, lamely hovering at the side of her bed.

The redhead eyes Draco warily for a second before scooting over on the bed, “Don’t touch me.”

“If that’s what you want.”

His limbs shaking, Draco sets the delicate teacup on the bedside table, pulling himself gingerly onto the edge of her bed. He arranges the pillows behind him, resting stiffly against them. For a long while, they sit there in silence, just breathing together.

“What’re you really doing here?” Keilee questions, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” Draco answers in a similarly small voice, worried that anything louder may break the fragile glass they're skating over tonight.

“Don’t do that.”

Draco sighs, “It’s not a poke. It’s just the truth. You don’t have a monopoly on loneliness, Holloway.”

“Not yet.”

Draco cracks a grin to match hers, finally letting himself fully relax against the jumble of blankets and pillows, “How much longer?”

“As long as – ”

“I don’t like that answer, Kei.”

She sighs, “I don’t have another one. I’m scared.”

“Me too,” Draco admits, resisting the urge to look over at her, to take her hands in his and beg until she gives in. “I’m fucking terrified.”

“It’s a really shit idea.”

“Terrible,” he nods his agreement.

He wishes Keilee would just come out and say it, shed light onto this devastating elephant now taking up too much room in their lives. But really, he’s just pleased she’s talking, and even if it’s in metaphors and winding paths around the obvious, he’ll take it. Talking is so much better than the blatant avoidance, the running away, the refusing to catch his eye. So he’ll do this. Will do it all night, for weeks and months if he’s got to because if she can flit around admitting it, he can hate himself a little less. At least it’s not this one-sided hell he’s been living for the past few weeks.

“We’d regret it.”

“Probably,” Draco frowns. “Most likely, yes.”

Keilee’s quiet for a moment, her teeth working against her bottom lip, “Would you care?”

“We’ve established that I care, Keilee.”

“Even though you shouldn’t?”

“Yes. Even though I’m not allowed.”

“I could leave.”

The idea churns his stomach, and Draco has to force himself not to physically react, “Don’t do that. Anything but that.”

“Even if I can’t?”

Draco weighs the question, weighs the consequences of voicing these new confusing feelings aloud. He thinks maybe she deserves to know, from his lips this time, “It’d be better for you to stay, even if you can’t.”

“Because you go nutty?”

He heaves a sigh, “Something like that.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just – ” he frowns. The words sit at the tip of his tongue, begging him to just spit it out, to just tell her and let the chips fall where they may. She can yell at him if she has to, but at least it’ll all be out there; at least she’ll have all the facts when she finally makes up her mind, finally entrenches herself in the same hell he’s so used to now. “I need you here.”

“Would you like to watch a movie?” Keilee begins to shift around in the bed, gathering her wand and swishing it around. A film reel begins to dance in the air, the lighting in the room dimming to just a few flickering candles.

Draco lets out the breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. She’s letting him stay, “Which one?”

“The Hobbit.”

He cracks a smile, that familiar ache of not being deserving creeping up in his chest. Just for tonight, he tucks it away, wondering if it will make much difference. “Okay.”

As the first splashes of color flit across the opposite wall, Draco feels pressure on his shoulder, heat washing over the right side of his body. He jerks, an unfamiliar prickle of hair dusting his neck, “Wha – ”

“Don’t talk,” Keilee whispers back, gently tugging his arm around her, settling in further to his side. “Just – just don’t talk.”


	21. Cares

Keilee made a mistake. She threw out all her carefully crafted rules, letting the gentle tone of Draco’s whisper, his unnatural vulnerability, lull her into a false sense of security. She beats herself up for it as she clings to her last few minutes of sleep. She shouldn’t have asked him to dinner. She shouldn’t have let him on her bed. Should’ve kicked him out after he offered up the lame excuse of bringing tea. Yet as she stretches, fingertips brushing over the still-warm sheets next to her, she can’t quite force herself to regret any of it.

Draco isn’t there when Keilee finally allows her eyes to flutter open and she’s grateful for that. While she’s managed to not let the self-hatred sink in, that sick feeling of all of this being so, so wrong, she’s certain it would’ve if she’d open her eyes to shocking blond.

As Keilee goes to roll over, to let the still lingering scent of Draco tantalize her senses, curiosity once again winning over reason, there’s a sharp rap at the window. Groaning, Keilee rolls, blinking out at a set of owls; one the jet-black bird that once upon a time belonged to Fred and another light brown creature likely sent by the postmaster. They each have a sizable bundle tied to their leg, hopping around on the window ledge and pecking expectantly.

Getting up with an agitated grumble, this is the warmest the bed has felt since she came here, Keilee throws open the window. The two owls hold their legs out, nipping at her fingers as she undoes the thick twine. Once the presents are set carefully on the bed, Keilee goes back, gently nuzzling the black bird’s head.

“I don’t have anything to give you buddy. I’m sorry.”

The bird clicks its beak at her as if the words offend, fluttering its wings before taking off into the hazy blue-grey of the morning.

She turns her attention to the stack on her bed, contemplates conjuring up some wrapping paper, decides that’s doing too much, and settles on a single gold ribbon to tie them all together. Making a conscious choice to stop fiddling with the magical bow now settled across the top of her gift, she wanders into the bathroom, splashes some cool water on her face, and then heads towards the dining room.

Keilee isn’t sure why she’s so anxious about seeing Draco. If their little routine of denial and dismissal holds, he won’t even bring up last night. If it holds. Her stomach twists into tight little knots when her eyes settle on the back of his head, sat at the head of the table instead of his usual seat along the side. Just do it. There’s no point putting it off any longer.

“Happy Christmas, Keilee.”

There’s a heaping plate of assorted sweetbreads on the table, which makes Keilee’s heart stutter. She didn’t think he’d been listening let alone tucking away the information she’s been feeding him over the past few weeks. Keilee isn’t sure if she wants to throw her head back and laugh until her lungs burn or sink to the floor and bawl her eyes out.

Her voice cracks as she slides out a chair, settling into it, “Happy Christmas, Draco.”

“Have you given any thought you were you’d like to eat tonight?” He questions, casually plucking an icing-covered roll from the top of the pile.

Keilee stares at him for a moment, fighting against the flush in her cheeks as he delicately sinks the side of his fork into the bun, stabbing it, and letting it hover over his lips for a second. She entranced by the way the muscles in his jaw flex as he chews, the bite rippling down his throat. Draco’s tongue flicks out, collecting the residual icing left on his bottom lip.

“Uh,” Keilee clears her throat, ripping her eyes away from him. She’s already broken too many rules. “There’s, uh, there’s a seafood place down by the pier. I thought that might be nice.”

“That place is good.”

“Mal – ”

“Is it a question you really want an answer to, Keilee?”

She lets out a huff, finally snatching one of the breads from the tray, “No. I guess not.”

They don’t talk for the rest of the day and Keilee’s legs wobble as she descends the stairs at quarter to five. She half expects him to change his mind, to decide the whole dinner arrangement is a bad idea, and just leave her standing in the hall all dolled up with no explanation. He’s there though and Keilee lets out a low breath. Draco’s back is turned to her, shoulders covered in a soft-looking green material. He looks breathtaking and she can’t even see his face. Maybe this was a mistake.

“Are you going to stare at my back all night or are we going to eat?” Draco grumbles, pulling her from her trance.

With the present clutched protectively against her chest, Keilee forces her feet to move her the last three or four steps it takes. She shakily slides her hand into the crook of his waiting elbow; this all feeling a bit too much like the last time Keilee and Draco made a public outing. She absently wonders if he’s thinking the same thing, wondering if this is just another ploy. A little kernel of regret blooms in Keilee’s stomach. It makes her feel ill.

“Lead the way, Mr. Malfoy.”

Keilee fiddles with the edge of one of the books in the neatly tied-up stack as the waiter slides their plates in front of them. She can’t even remember what she ordered. She’s been lost in how the candlelight dances in Draco’s eyes, illuminating those little flecks of blue and dashing silver in them, making them so alive.

“What are those?” Malfoy questions, his gaze flicking to the present.

She fusses with the bow for a second, pushing them across the table towards him, “Now you can read about Frodo.”

“I – uh,” Draco clears his throat, his sparkling gaze never leaving the rich blacks and golds of the books now sitting in front of him. “I didn’t get you anything.”

“That’s okay. I wasn’t expecting you to.”

“I should’ve – ”

The movement is so subtle that, if she hadn’t peeled her eyes away from Draco’s half-grin as a way to distract herself from how stunning the little dimple in his bottom lip looks, she would’ve missed it. Just the slightest twitch of a jacket, a fluid curl of fingers. Her heart stops. How? There’s no way. Keilee’s own hand slips from the table, quickly diving into her pocket, knuckles protesting under the force with which she now grips her wand.

Keilee’s eyes sweep the restaurant, picking up on every tick. A hand sliding too quickly from a tabletop, the stiffening of shoulders, the slightest change in posture. She counts five in total; two at a table directly behind Draco, another two at tables off to her left, and the last – a reflection in the frosty restaurant window – behind her.

“Keilee?”

“Don’t move.”

“I do – ”

“I want you to keep looking at me,” she instructs, trying to mask the panic in her words, running through a tattered semblance of a plan, “Slowly take your hand off the table. Slide it into your coat pocket and when I count to three start throwing spells.”

“I can’t – ”

“Do as I say, Mr. Malfoy. I’ll get you out of this alive.”

“How did – ”

“I don’t know.”

“What about the mug – ”

“I’ll deal with it later,” she takes one last breath to steady herself. They’ll only get one shot at this. “One. Two. Three.”

The first crack of magic zipping through the air sends the restaurant into a roaring panic. Muggles dive under their tables, some scurrying towards the door, others wearing wide-eyed, opened mouth, confusion. Keilee ignores it all. Suddenly Draco and her are back-to-back throwing curses with abandon.

As a table explodes she dives behind another, throwing the muggles huddled behind it towards the door, “Get the hell out of here! _Expelliarmus_! _Protego_!”

The jet of red light fizzles against her protection charm, giving her the precious seconds to get back to Draco. He pushes his shoulder up against hers again, growling out a curse that hits one of their attackers square in the chest. The Death Eater stumbles, wand dropping to the floor.

“Avada – ”

“No!” Keilee pushes Draco’s wand away, muttering the curse under the breath, the green light meeting its target. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you ever…ever….”

The weight of the realization is soul-crushing. She cares. Keilee cares about Draco. Cares if he lives or dies. Cares how he sees himself. Cares despite the dislike still sitting on her tongue. Cares despite how infuriating he can be at times. Cares.

The sharp inhale causes her to falter, throwing up a protective spell seconds too late. The burgundy flash zips past her, shattering against Draco’s chest. The lopsided frown he’s been wearing tumbles from his face, his eyes screw up, feet unable to keep up with his wild stumbling. Spots of crimson spark across his chest, bleeding through his shirt. She cares. She cares so damn much.

Scrambling towards him, she thinks of one place, one person who will be not so glad to see her. She cares. Latching onto Draco’s sleeve, Keilee slams her eyes shut, and sends them to safety. She cares so damn much.

The waiting room is eerily silent. Panic hammers away at her chest as she clings to Draco, trying to support his increasing dead weight. He’s pale, so pale, too pale. Keilee’s head swims, trying to grapple with her new realization, trying to get her brain to click back on and come up with something rational to do. The tears swim in her eyes, blurring her vision, leading her further into the panic trap, alarm bells buzzing loudly in her ears. “Mum! Mum!”

A rather frazzled-looking witch rounds the corner, her eyes going wide as she takes in the scene before her, “Keilee!”

“Help him!” Keilee blubbers, shoving Draco into her mother’s arms, watching as his stains transfer onto the crisp white healer’s robes. “Help!”

Other healers are swarming the once stiflingly quiet room, stripping Draco of his shirt, already mumbling charms as they whisk his body away. His body. Keilee’s heart pounds, her eyes pulsing, wet hot tears streaming down throbbing cheeks. She stumbles behind the bundle of healers, trying to keep a line of sight on Draco. If she can still see him everything will be okay. If they just don’t take him from her line of sight.

“Wait outside, dear,” her mother says gently, offering a pitying smile that rises deep, hot anger in Keilee’s gut.

“I – I can’t leave him,” Keilee breathes out through a hitch of sobs. “I can’t.”

Her mother sighs, “He’s safe here. The healers need to do their jobs.” Keilee growls, getting in her mother’s face, hating the way the witch staring back at her keeps a cool, placid gaze. She’s in the mood for a fight, but clearly isn’t going to get one. “I’ll come get you once he’s been looked after and moved to a patient room.”

“Alone,” Keilee snips before stalking off up the hall to take a seat in the once again too quiet waiting room.

She doesn’t know how long she’s sat there lost in deep, soul damning thoughts, but her muscles ache when she stands too quickly in response to her mum’s face, “Is he okay?”

“Sit back down, Keilee.”

“No!” Her fingers ball into tight fists at her side. “Just tell me if he’s okay.”

Her mother offers a sad frown, “The curse is not one we see very often. It is dark magic, dear, very dark, but – ” she pushes forward, not allowing Keilee time for another yell. “ – we did get the bleeding to stop and most of the wounds look stable. He hasn’t woken up. There’s no guarantee he ever will. Keilee, who is this boy to you?”

“He’s my mission,” she grits out, hating how the words rake up her tongue. “I just – I need him to be alive.”

Keilee’s mother cracks her a knowing smile, a smile Keilee wants to slap from her stupid, worry-lined face, “We’ve put him in a room. I presume you’d like to see him now.”

“Yes.”

She follows closely behind the white swish of the healer’s robes, eyes settling on her own hands. They're stained, the color is worse than the sick blue. This color is rich and hot and sticky. Blood. Draco’s blood.

“Would you like some company?” Her mum asks in a small voice once Keilee is settled into a chair next to the gently breathing lump of Draco.

“No.”

Her mother teeters in the doorway for another second before letting out a sad sigh and sliding back into the hallway. Keilee stands, mindlessly casting charms around the room, only allowing herself to settle when every protective spell she knows blanket the space. She lets herself tip forward in the chair, fitting her fingers against Draco’s open palm. A little life has come back to his form, the dead blue tinge that washed over his features nowhere to be seen. His lips are pink again and the steady breath falling from them lulls Keilee into an uneasy sleep.


	22. Yellow

Pain. White-hot, blinding, ripping its way through him.

Voices.

Pressure, deep and uncomfortable sitting on his chest.

The dusting of fingers across his forehead, cheeks, jaw. A thumb tracing his bottom lip over and over and over... It’s delicious.

More pain. And then blissful nothing.

On and on. He can hear voices, hushed at times, echoing off the walls in fiery shouts at others. They all sound so far away, like they're coming at him through water.

He tries to get his brain to work, to feel any part of his body inside the excruciating blanket of pain—more nothing.

He thinks it’s only been days, but trapped in this mental prison, drowning in hot licks of torture, it could be months.

“Wake up. Just wake up.” A demand. He fights his eyelids, like thousand pound weighs over his eyes, trying desperately to comply with her simple command. “Please.”

Draco’s eyes fly open.

The lights in the room cast everything in an ugly, mustard yellow. He studies the space around him, white tile, scratchy sheets, a flimsy bedframe. He’s at St. Mungo’s. Foggy memories swirl in his mind, dinner, yelling, so much pain. Draco groans as he tries to sit up, flashes of the awful sensation of his insides spilling out wracking through him. A steady hand pushes into his chest. His eyes swivel in their puffy sockets.

Draco blinks stupidly, forcing himself to swallow. She’s here, looking breathtaking, basked in the yellow glow. Draco realizes just how much he loves yellow, how alive and warm it feels. All words escape him, flying clear out of his head…all words but those two. Words she might not understand. Words he so desperately wants to say…needs to say, needs her to hear like a screaming, like a burning curse coursing through him.

“Ma lumière.”

“Shh,” a gentle, delicious sound. “Just relax. Mum!”

A grey-haired, wisp of a witch pushes into the room, and for a moment, Draco is looking into the future. The resemblance is uncanny. Even through the slate grey hair and creased wrinkles, he can see Keilee in the older healer’s face. “What is it – oh!” Two sets of blue eyes flick to him “ – Mr. Malfoy! You’re awake.”

“Wha – ”

“There will be plenty of time for questions later, dear,” that same smart quip that he loathes so much. For some reason, it brings the quirk of a smile to his lips. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got run over with a train,” Draco grumbles back, scowling at the hand still firmly pressed to his chest. “You’re boney knuckles aren’t helping, Holloway.”

“Oh,” she jerks her hand away, a little pucker of confusion appearing between her brows. Keilee studies her hand for a second before sliding it into her coat pocket. She's got on a lumpy green sweater, and he can almost see the squared edge of an F. He's not sure why, but he almost expected her to still be in her Christmas dress. He'd never gotten the chance to tell her how lovely she looks in gold. 

The healer, busying herself with preparing a tray of potions, seems oblivious to the interaction, “Some of these will taste like mud and burn like hell going down, but ultimately, in time, you’ll feel better.”

“Thanks for the words of confidence,” Draco rolls his eyes, already snatching the first vial from the tray and grimacing as he gives it a sniff. “Smells like dragon piss.”

“Just drink it, Malfoy,” Keilee shoots back, a warning edge to her tone.

The witch Draco safely presumes is Keilee’s mother, pulls the redhead away from the edge of his bed, whispering with their heads tipped together, “ – the best thing for him now is rest.”

“When can we leave?”

“A few days, I suspect. It’ll depend on how quickly his body heals.”

“Have you gotten any news?”

“A few owls. It seems like they’ve lost them again. Keilee, whatever you – ”

Keilee holds up a hand, “Save the lecture, mother. I’m not a child anymore.”

The healer’s eyes slide to Draco, a sad little sparkle in them, “No. You are not.”

Draco waits a second, downs another two of those god-awful potions, lets the fight drain from Keilee’s flushed features. Once again, he tries to drag himself into a sitting position. It hurts like hell, and his limbs yell at him the whole time, but eventually, he’s able to prop himself up a little against the thin pillows. “Care to tell me what happened?”

“What do you remember?” Keilee doesn’t lift her forehead from her hands.

“Dinner. You gave me those books—colored lights. We were fighting,” he shrugs. “Not much else.”

She heaves a heavy sigh, “Before you ask, I don’t know how they found you. I’ve already dealt with the Ministry. You’ve got a hearing in a month or so; I’m not sure if they’ll lift the ban or extend it. I did what I could. There were Death Eaters at the restaurant. They attacked us. You got hit with a curse.”

“How long have I been here?” As much as he doesn’t want the answer, he needs to know.

“Two weeks,” Keilee’s lips tug into a tight frown. “They didn’t think you’d wake up.”

“Well, I did,” Draco’s hand jerks, fingers brushing over the back of Keilee’s.

“Yeah,” her fingers slip between his, forehead hitting the mattress next to his thigh. “You did.”

He doesn’t know if it’s because she’s exhausted or because she’s giving up or what, but the weight of her hand in his is nice, comforting, so he doesn’t question it. Draco relaxes into their mingling body heat, running his thumb along Keilee’s smooth knuckles. There’s a scar between two of them he’s never noticed before. He’s never been allowed close enough to notice. He traces the thin white line absently. The sentiment feels foreign on his tongue, but the little slice of saying it before allows it to slip out now. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Saving my life,” Draco glances down at Keilee, their eyes locking for a second. His lips twitch in a barely-there smile. “Again.”

Keilee lets out an uncommitted sigh, “Happy New Year, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Happy New Year, Keilee.”

~~~~

They hold him for another week. Draco’s almost certain they would’ve insisted he stay longer had he not taken up yelling at the healers, demanding they give him a solid reason for keeping him or let him go home. He’s also pretty sure that if it had been anyone but Keilee and her mother looking after him, he would’ve been back in his own bed days ago.

Keilee’s pretty strictly kept him chained to his bed. He’s not allowed to take two steps out of the blasted thing without her breathing down his neck. If this is her showing she cares, he’d rather have the hate back. She’s infuriating. He feels fine. He wishes she’d stop hovering for just a second.

The thought has niggled at his brain since he had enough sense to think about it. The thick white bandage keeps pulling his attention, and he needs to know, needs to look for the first time in almost three years. He just needs to get her out of this blasted room for a second.

“Can I have a cup of tea?”

“Yeah,” Keilee mumbles, standing on shaking legs. “Don’t leave the bed.”

He waits until he can’t hear her retreating footsteps anymore and then springs into action. Draco flies out of bed, slipping into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him. His whole body quakes, fingers working clumsily against the soft white bandage. He doesn’t know which thought is more terrifying; all those self-inflicted wounds still being there or facing the clean version of the reason for so much of his self-loathing. Draco’s eyes stay squeezed tightly shut as he hears the bandage hit the floor. Just look. It’ll be better to know.

A thick black burn mark stares up at him. Draco lets out a heavy breath, sliding down to the floor. They hadn’t touched it.

Draco’s just settled himself back in bed, tucking the last of the wrapping back around his forearm when she pushes back into the room. Keilee sets the cup of tea on the bedside table, crawling onto the end of the bed, “I told you not to leave bed.”

“What? I didn’t.”

“Your shirt is different.”

“Excuse me for wanting clean clothes,” Draco snaps back.

Keilee shrugs, the exhaustion that comes with endless nights of no sleep clings to her, zapping the fight right out of her, “Have you given any thought to what you’ll say at your hearing?”

“No,” he answers coolly. “You breath so loudly I can barely hear myself think, let alone come up with an explanation for why I should get my ban lifted.”

“I’m not in the mood, Malfoy.”

He huffs, “Well, I am.”

“There are four walls in this room; perhaps one of them would like to play mental gymnastics with you.”

“Why the piss poor attitude, Holloway?”

She rolls over, looking through him, “I’m just tired.”

“Come lay with me.”

It’s a strange little routine they’ve started up since he’s returned from St. Mungo’s. He’s not quite sure she actually sleeps, but every night he feels the pressure of Keilee’s body in the bed next to him. She stays above the covers and never quite cuddles with him, but occasionally her hand will slip into his, and he gets to wake up to the delicious sight of her fingers tangled in his. Draco’s never asked her to do it, though, and he’s worried now that he’s voiced their silent secret aloud, she’ll stop.

Keilee’s body goes stiff, and he prepares himself for the ensuing fight. Then she relaxes, fixing him with a wary stare as she slides herself up the bed, settling next to him. She adjusts her limbs so none are touching him, but she’s there, and that fact alone allows him to let out the breath he’s been holding and settles his head back against the pillows. “Thank you.”

“Just don’t talk.” Her eyes flutter shut. “Don’t talk.” Her fingers tangle in his.


End file.
